Quietly
by netherfield
Summary: A Goren and Eames story set in Season IV. Complete.
1. One

This timeline is my own. Standard disclaimers apply.

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**If you are a fan of this show, skip to the story below**. **You already know this stuff**.

Detectives Robert Goren and Alexandra Eames are partners in NYPDs Major Case Squad.

Goren is eccentric and genius-esque in the connections he is able to make in a case. He is a profiler of the first order with handy encyclopedic knowledge. We know that he had a chaotic childhood, his father distant, his mother a schizophrenic. He fears inheriting this disease himself. He visits his mother regularly in her nursing home.Eames is cool, collected, and dry. She recently gave birth to a boy as surrogate for her sister. She is the daughter of a disgraced cop and grew up in a large family without a lot of money. Her husband, also a police officer, was killed in the line of duty in her past. Eames and Goren have an interesting unspoken chemistry which, of course, hack writers like myself wish to pervert into romance. **xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

**S**he preferred cashmere in the colder months.

It was her first choice. Even with a suit. She was shrewd about it though. Bought from Blue Fly Dot Com. Sometimes seventy percent off. Even with this one luxury she allowed herself, she wasn't foolish enough to pay full price. Also, it saved her from hitting the department stores—her own personal idea of hell.

She had the blouses too, of course. Plain, muted, a stripe now and then to mix it up. All as asexual as possible. The necessary uniform of the female detective who has risen through the ranks. Whether or not you were 'a man's woman', you had to pass as one. Had to look as serious and tough as any of them. Had to look just male enough to relate to.

Misogynistic anachronism or not, it was the way of things.

She had no problem with that really. Understood it even. In fact, it simplified things, this unofficial uniform. But the cashmere allowed her to cheat a little. To revel in its warmth, in the silky hand of the weave against her skin. To take comfort where there often was none.

There were days when even this small thing helped.

Silk or fine cotton knits were for the warmer months.

But could not compare to cashmere in her book.

And she was especially glad for it (with a silk thermal beneath, and the jeans she'd allowed herself to wear as it was Sunday) on this bitterest of mornings. There was a little sleet in the air, and the wind by the river had its way of boring straight to the bone.

She felt the cold more acutely these days. Perhaps it was age. She didn't do things as briskly as she once had in her life. At almost forty, she had found her center as a professional, and as a woman.

There was with this, however, the knowledge that though she and her partner had a strength and balance in their work together, there was something now missing. Something gone from within her.

And it wasn't really about the baby.

And, damn, she was tired.

She parked the SUV and thrust her hands into her gloves as she got out, albeit a bit stiffly, and headed toward the throng of bundled uniforms. CSU stood to one side waiting. And, surprise, Deakins was there as well.

"Captain," she nodded as she approached.

"Eames, where's Goren?" he asked in lieu of a greeting.

She took in his unusually grim expression and tried to squelch her irritation at being found insufficient.

"It's Sunday. He'll be almost at Carmel Ridge by now. Do you want me to call him back?"

Deakins sighed, his breath puffing out in a cloud.

"No. He'll be back this afternoon?"

She nodded.

"Okay, you can fill him in later then. Come on over and have a look."

"You know who she is, I assume? They don't call out a Captain on a Sunday morning for a plain ole' Susie Jogger."

"A singer. Classical or opera, or something. Headlining in a program at Lincoln Center. Name's Christine Larkins. The Mayor's wife is on the Opera Gala Committee and knows her. She's clothed. It doesn't look outwardly like rape."

She walked around the evergreens shielding the body as she exchanged her warm gloves for latex, and knelt next to the beautiful dark haired woman, sighing a little at the frozen hazel eyes staring up at her.

Poor thing. Poor beautiful thing, she felt the usual wave of empathy hit.

Well-practiced in hiding this though, she gave herself a mental shake for focus and began her assessment.

"Shot almost directly in the heart. No make-up. Dressed casually, though well."

"It's a sweatsuit," frowned Deakins from above her.

"By _Prada_. These yoga shoes are easily three or four hundred dollars a pair. She was wrapped in this comforter when she was found? It's a high thread count. Down. No label, but definitely high end. No coat or gloves. How was she identified?"

"Guy walking his dog found her. Said he saw her show last week."

"No one's reported her missing?"

"She performed last night. The Car Service records say that her usual driver dropped her off at her apartment about one this morning. No purse found in the area. No keys, wallet, or cell phone either. I've still got the guys out digging through the trash cans. Doubt they'll find anything though."

She nodded her head in agreement.

"They won't. She's definitely been moved here—look at the lividity. And the blood's on the comforter, not seeped into the ground as warm blood would on a cold night," Alex concluded before going on, "No defensive marks. Just the clean shot. Relatively close range, I'd guess. The exit wound is lower behind. Whoever shot her was taller. And cared about her. He made sure to bundle her up against the cold."

"I've got her apartment sealed off."

She nodded at that as well.

"This is interesting..."

"What?"

"Her navel is pierced."

"That doesn't fit with my idea of an opera singer."

"Lovely diamond on the ring," she noted.

"So, no robbery then."

"Maybe the perp didn't have time to check her navel. I'll go to her apartment next. Not a lot here."

"Too bad we don't have Goren to sniff her hands."

Alex eyed him wearily at this, "I could call him back to do that and deduce what he might if you like."

Deakins sighed again, "Alex, I'm sorry..."

She waved his apology off then lifted the singer's bare left hand and sniffed at the manicured fingers.

"Sandalwood soap," she concluded. "Ralph Lauren."

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"**I**'m still forty-five minutes out," he told her.

"That's fine. They've packed Miss Larkins off to the coroner. I'm at her apartment now. No signs of a struggle or forced entry. The comforter is gone and the bedding matches the one found wrapped around the victim."

"Is her purse there?"

"Purse, id, keys, everything. Looks like she came in, bathed, and changed into some comfortable sweats, then had a cup of tea."

"So, she must have known him."

"That's what it looks like. Knew him. Let him in probably too. I'm going down to talk to the doorman now."

"I'll get there as soon as I can."

"Well, be safe about it," she glanced out the window. "This sleet is not looking good. How was she today?"

"She was doing pretty well, actually," she heard his voice brighten slightly. "I told her that you suggested the lotion I brought and she even remembered who you were. Says thank you."

"Oh, that's nice."

"She wants me to bring you to meet her."

"Really?" she asked in surprise.

"Yeah, well, we'll see if she remembers that next week."

She didn't miss the hollow drop in his voice at that.

"I'm sure she will, Bobby," she told him gently, then regretted it immediately as a resulting quiet moment stretched between them.

"I'll be at the tunnel in twenty minutes," he finally told her.

"Okay."

She clicked off her cell and sighed as she pulled her notebook out of her purse. She shouldn't have offered up even the merest breath of sympathy. He didn't like it. She knew that. It only served to silence and sever him from her. Something she understood more keenly than he was probably aware.

Rest assured they would connect again, as they always did, when he arrived. But not over anything as personal as his mother. They would go about their work quietly, intensely, surprisingly few words needed to figure things out. He ruminating. She clicking the links together. Their rhythm a low thrum they both could hear and take comfort from.

Was a time though when she had been a little noisier in her life.

Had had a temper too. A noisy, Irish, red-headed temper, her dad had tsked. It didn't flare often. But when one grows up the fourth of five children, one has to be able to spit sparks now and then. If only to survive.

Her husband had found it amusing. He'd grin when she'd lay into some perp.

"Hey, Andy, your wife's going toe to toe with a two hundred pound dealer in interrogation," Castleman would tell him.

"She can take care of herself," he'd say.

And everyone on the squad knew it was true.

But after Andy's death. After the loud report as the bullets entered his body. And after three days of dying, consciousness never regained, breathing shallow and hoarse, and then the silence that comes after the shrill monotone of the heart monitor has been turned off. After that, temper seemed superfluous and self-indulgent.

Oh sure, she still got angry. Just... more quietly so.

And the only identifiable red in her hair these days was artfully applied by Tanya every ten to twelve weeks.

She flipped open her notebook and headed to the elevator in pursuit of the doorman.

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"**A**lex is a woman, right?" her forehead creased as she tried to penetrate her own fuzzy thoughts.

"That's right," he assured her softly. "My partner."

"It's good they let women do that."

"Yes, it is."

"It smells like vanilla."

"She thought you might like it."

"I do. You must thank her for me. Or bring her to see me. I'd write a note, but..." and her voice drifted off as she turned her head to look out the window.

"I'll tell her for you."

"These dark winter days," she shook her head sadly.

"I know, Mom. I know," he nodded in understanding.

"I keep having this thought that they're putting something in my medicine to make it seem darker out than it really is. So I can't see what's going on. And then I realize that _that _is an irrational thought, because I know it is Winter, as my calendar plainly shows me. And it is always darker in Winter. But it's the medicine which makes it possible for me _to see _that the thought is irrational. Thus making the whole thing rather ironic, don't you think?" she smiled wanly, and looked up at him from her recliner.

He tried to smile for her in return.

"You know no one is tampering with your medicine, Mom."

She looked away from him again and shrugged.

"Only a crazy woman would think so, I suppose."

"Mom..." he began, aware that a slight pleading note was creeping into his voice.

"Is she pretty?"

He blinked, but caught right up, "My partner?"

"Yes. This—Alex. Is she pretty?"

"Yes."

"I am surprised to hear you say so."

"Why is that?"

"What is she like?"

"Intelligent, strong... dry," he answered dutifully, and then went on, struggling a bit for more, "And..."

"And?"

"Quiet."

"Quiet? That sounds like a bore."

"Not a bore. Still waters run deep, Mom," he smiled.

"Well, cliches don't," she returned.

"Why do you ask, anyway?"

"It really doesn't matter," she shook her head. "What _does_ matter is that it is Winter and that is why it is so dark out. It was dark like this the day I turned in my thesis, you know."

"It won a prize for excellence," he made the appropriate show of pride, well-rehearsed for many years now.

She nodded, "Yes, it did. And then my article was in The New Yorker. That, my lad, is something."

"Something great. You were only twenty-six."

She smiled up at him in gratitude, as he leaned down to tuck her afghan around her more closely.

"Let's eat lunch in here today shall we, Bobby? Room fourteen is on her high horse again and I will not dine in the same room with her when she is like that."

"Oh, I don't know, it's pretty cute when she starts to sing," he teased.

"Oh, you are naughty!" she giggled. "That poor old lady has lost her marbles and we mustn't joke about it."

"No, you're right. We shouldn't. I'll go get us some trays. Pudding or cake today?"

"Surprise me," she grinned..

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**I**t was going to snow.

No doubt about it. He didn't really mind, as long as it held off until tonight. He didn't like driving in it, and he didn't like to think of Eames driving in it either.

Only a few weeks off of maternity leave now, he knew she was still tiring easily. This concerned him a bit. Not that he could let that on, she'd probably flay him alive if he did. But that she was still struggling was apparent to him if not to anyone else.

He was usually aware of her, for lack of a better word. As she was him.

They never spoke about it—this awareness. Had both consciously avoided doing so, in fact.

It just seemed that she should be more, well, _robust_, for lack of a better word by now. She was still pale and ever so slightly ginger as she moved. Not like her old self yet. Not that he expected a thirty-nine year old woman to just bounce back from childbirth, but it niggled at him and he wished he could express his concern to her for once.

Comfort her even, should she need it.

Then again, he thought for probably the thousandth time during their few years as partners, it was probably not really a good idea to go there.

He maneuvered slowly through the Manhattan traffic, plotting his next move. If he dropped his car off at home, he could grab a cab to the victim's apartment. It was on the way, and then he could ride with Eames back to the office.

He tugged at his tie then. A suit was second skin to him but he could never fully accept the constraints of a tie. He wouldn't have bothered with it on a morning off of work, but he knew it pleased her to see him show up dressed in a suit and tie, bearing flowers and gifts. It wasn't much to do to be the highlight of her week. Putting on a suit, eating an institutional lunch, shaving. These were nothing to the list of lifelong accommodations he'd made for his ill mother, after all.

And she did seem more consistently lucid on this new cocktail of meds. He just hoped it would stick and no unpleasant side effects would rear their ugly heads again, forcing them to reorganize and start over. Prozac had made her tired and disconnected. The zoloft gave her dry mouth and took away her appetite, and so on.

He leaned forward to switch on the radio then to distract himself from this always depressing thought progression. The newscaster was already talking about the Larkins murder. Her matinee for later that afternoon cancelled, as there had been no understudy for her one-woman eclectic performance of Art Songs and Middle Eastern laments.

They played one then as homage to the young singer who, until last night, had only a brilliant career ahead of her.

Goren turned into his parking garage as the mezzo's strong voice sang defiantly out.

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"**O**kay, I'll need the number of the agency then," she told him.

"I've got it over at the desk. Be right back."

"Thanks," she replied as the manager walked away.

She turned then to see Goren coming into the lobby.

"Whew! Sleets's fierce!" he called out to her with a smile, as he brushed off the shoulders of his coat. "My cab practically skated over!"

She looked up and saw a sort of exhilaration in his eyes as he first looked at her, then swept the area, quickly registering the details—CSU taking prints, uniforms questioning neighbors. She wondered idly which took precedence in his mind; the fun of the icy trip, or the anticipation of the new case. Probably a combination of both, she thought wryly.

"What have you got?" he turned his intensity back to her.

"The doorman last night was a temp, has been on the job for two weeks, though is off right now. The regular guy was rear- ended and has been recovering at home. The Building Manager's getting me the temp. agency number and the guy's full name now.

Deakins sent a uniform over to the car service to pick up Miss Larkin's driver for preliminary questioning. He'll be here in a few. There are security cameras in the lobby and the elevator but, our luck of course, they are both new and not in service yet."

Goren nodded.

"Neighbors see or hear anything?"

"Not yet. Older lady—A Mrs. Clark lives next door and just got back from church. I thought we could go up and talk to her now."

He nodded and stood aside for her to lead the way to the elevator.

Once within, the doors slid shut and button pushed, she looked over at him again.

"Salisbury steak or pot roast today?" she asked.

"Salisbury steak," he sighed in mock resignation.

"Sorry about that," she smiled and lifted her eyes to watch the floor numbers blink as they ascended.

His turn to observe her out of the corner of his eye.

"You look a little tired," he commented. "Late night?"

"You might say that," she frowned. "For my book and I."

"Couldn't get any rest?"

She shook her head.

"Too wicked," she tossed over her shoulder as the door dinged open.

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"**S**o, let me get this straight: The temp doorman is M.I.A., and the driver who dropped her off promptly at one saw nobody and nothing?" checked Deakins.

"That's pretty much it," sighed Eames, as she wearily sank into her chair. "The driver did say she was carrying a large mailing tube, like for a poster, but otherwise seemed perfectly normal. Mrs. Clark is deaf as the proverbial post but does think that something was going on between Miss Larkins and her accompanist... a Mr. Drew."

Goren, flipping through his notebook, looked up then.

"A mailing tube?" he queried.

Alex flicked her eyes to his instantly.

"There wasn't one found in the apartment," she stated for him, their conclusion mutual.

"So perhaps there was a robbery after all? We need to talk to the staff at the opera house. Find out why Miss Larkins was bringing home a mailing tube after her performance."

She nodded her agreement.

"You two had anything to eat yet?" Deakins asked then, noting the late hour.

"He had Salisbury steak," shrugged Alex as she opened up her laptop.

"You haven't had anything today? At all?" Goren asked her.

"Go. Get dinner. I'll call if anything comes up," Deakins dismissed them.

Alex sighed and nodded as she and Goren collected their coats and headed to the elevator.

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"**T**he Soup and Salad Special, please," Alex said as she closed the menu and handed it to the waitress.

Goren noted the scant order but refrained from comment.

"We should run her accompanist..."

"David Drew."

"Right. David Drew. We should run him through the system," he said instead.

Alex nodded and took a sip of her tea.

"What did her apartment reveal to you?" she asked.

"She had quality taste, that's for sure. But the place felt sort of hotel-like to me."

"Well, she toured a lot."

"No personal photos or mementoes."

"Not even an old ticket stub laying around," Alex agreed.

"The place was... minimal. Even her wardrobe was pretty spare for the amount of money she must have."

Alex looked at him a moment and bit her lip before beginning.

"You know... something about seeing her this morning...I don't know. I just felt... something..." She turned to look out the diner's window as snow began to fall, furrowing her brow.

Goren looked at her in interest.

It was a rare moment when Eames would open herself to flights of intuition. She could draw conclusions based on observation and experience with the best of them. He knew, or rather sensed, her to be intuitive as well, but also felt that she often refrained from sharing even to him. Allowing him to speak aloud about such things instead. He'd always chalked it up to her reticence to seem overly 'female'. Something not thought too highly of among cops.

"What? What did you feel?" he prompted gently.

She turned back to look at him.

"Not sure," she shook her head.

"Soup and Salad Special. Club sandwich with fries," stated the waitress then as she set their food before them.

They turned to their food then and ate in companionable silence.

"She studied in Europe and all over the Middle East, they said on the radio," commented Goren, "Unusual for an American."

"Yeah, I downloaded her bio earlier. Maybe there's a financial problem of some kind? That could be the reason for all the material minimalism in her life," she reflected.

"We should check it out, but it looked like a considered choice to me," he responded.

"She didn't even have much of a music collection. A few cds. No vinyl. You'd think a classical musician would have at least some vinyl."

"She's young enough to have everything on an ipod or something similar," Goren reflected.

"It wasn't in her apartment."

"We'll check her dressing room tomorrow."

"I'm getting old. I didn't even think of an ipod," she berated herself.

Goren lifted his brows at this, "Old? You feel old?"

She looked up at him shrewdly, "Bobby, I'm fine."

Goren grinned at her, caught.

"Just checking, that's all."

"I know. It's just taking awhile to bounce back, that's all."

He nodded, "Can I do anything?"

She considered him a moment over this.

His concern. The respect he afforded her. How he rarely sank to sarcasm (one of her own adolescent coping mechanisms, she inwardly sighed.) Certainly the words they occasionally exchanged about their inner selves were spare. Simple even. Yet, they seemed to know so much more about one another than what the casual observer might believe. They were perhaps sketchy on some of the nitty-gritty details. Those bread and butter stories about one another. The sort often shared in long stakeouts---the standard ritual of bonding between detectives.

But that they _knew_ one another was never a question.

"I'll be fine. It's only been four weeks," she dismissed.

"How is the baby doing?" he asked softly.

She looked down at her salad..

He saw her lips tighten a bit and his heart went out to her. Too far, Goren, he thought. For all her purported strength, there was this softness too. It was usually locked up behind a closed door, but he knew it to be there nonetheless.

"Eames, I'm sorry. It's none of my business," he offered her a way out.

She got hold of herself and looked up at him with a small smile.

Perhaps even with a decision made.

"I don't know why it shouldn't be," she reflected. "I don't see why things have to be as they've always been, Bobby."

He lifted his brows at that.

"It just seems that we don't, haven't ever, really, talked about... a lot of things..." she shrugged.

"And now you think that we should?"

She frowned a moment.

"No," she answered.

"No?" he was confused.

"Not _should,_" she amended. "But, perhaps, might _want_ to."

He smiled a little, perplexed, but pleased.

"Ah. Well, Ea– Alex, I think that could be... nice."

She nodded, "It's not that I think that we would do the job any better if we..."

"Just that we might... want to?" he supplied.

"The thing is... it is something that we would both have to want."

"And I haven't always been the most forthcoming?" he admitted.

She smiled in return, "I haven't either."

Bobby looked at her then, allowing himself a rare moment to really look at her. At her milky skin and long slim throat. At the deep brown eyes that could look straight into him. He turned away from their penetration, his mind playing through a thousand scenarios. A thousand outcomes.

Generally he withheld himself from others. It was his nature and his habit. A sort of self-preservation, he knew. He'd read enough about such things. At the same time he sensed that his withholding from her was unique and based in something entirely different.

It was something he had not wanted to examine very closely.

They together, as a functioning working team, had been too important for him to risk.

But now, this opening up from her own usual reticence... was, for lack of a better word, precious.

And it touched him.

"It could be... dangerous," he told her softly, meeting her eyes again.

She felt her breath hitch as she considered this and nodded.

"Is that why we never have... become closer, Bobby?"

He felt his heart pound a little harder but he knew what she meant.

"Maybe," he allowed, but did not break her gaze.

She looked away though and back out at the snow falling more heavily now on the dark sidewalk. People hunched and hurrying by.

And sighed. It was too much right now.

"So the new meds seem to be working well for your mom?" she turned back to him, picking up her fork again.

"So far," he nodded, letting her change the subject.

"That's good. You seem..." she narrowed her eyes, and looked at him again.

He waited.

"...less exhausted than you usually do after a visit," she chose her words carefully.

He nodded, "I am. I caught a glimpse of the feisty lady she can be today. It was nice."

Suddenly Alex sat up straight, her eyes a-spark.

"That's it!"

"What's it?"

"Feisty. There was something a little rebellious about it. A good girl who has done something a little wicked. A rebellion."

"Rebellion?" he repeated, waiting.

She looked at him directly.

"Like my tattoo."

He blinked at this, his mind slipping to places it shouldn't, "Your... tattoo?"

She smiled at his barely concealed surprise but went on.

"Just a little one. Some girlfriends and I in college. Too much wine. Finals just finished. We got tattoos."

He narrowed his eyes in interest, wondering more about this, but turned it back to the case as he ought, "And Christine Larkins?"

"A pierced navel," Alex told him.

"Ah."

He reflected on that a moment, his eyes playing over the table.

"Of course it's not that unusual for young women to do that these days," he decided, looking back at her.

"No..."

"I hear you, though," he nodded. "Something not quite typical about it. A classically trained singer..."

She nodded back, glad that she had, well, _something_ anyway, glad for normalcy between them again, then stabbed her fork into her salad.

He took a bite of his sandwich, and munched thoughtfully for a few moments.

"A tattoo, huh?" he looked over at her slyly.

She looked up at him, a small smile playing at her lips, a challenge in her uplifted chin.

"Yep."

He cleared his throat slightly.

"So," he began, feeling something warm quietly build within, "Where'd you get it?"

She cocked her head a bit then lowered and lifted her lashes.

"Brooklyn."

He let a soft chuckle escape.

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**T**he next morning, as she heard yet another group laugh from Admin., Alex rolled her eyes.

It was the distinctly pleased sound of a group of women enjoying themselves. She didn't bother to look up at what she knew was a smile on his face as he strode back into the bullpen to their desks.

She focused on her computer screen as she heard a stack of files plop down on the desk opposite.

"They're trying to find a rhyme for 'murder'," her told her, jabbing his thumb in Admin's direction.

She didn't look over. Or answer.

"It's that literary contest thing. You know the supplement they're going to put in The Times of poetry by the city's finest?"

"They featured firefighters last month, didn't they?" she responded as she lifted her cup of coffee to her lips and scrolled down a page.

"Yeah," he laughed a little. "Carrie and Sandra are going to enter something."

"Limerick?" she asked dryly and set her cup down.

He smiled.

"It's all public relations crap," she shook her head."You'd think we'd all have better things to do."

"Ah, come on, Eames, don't you think those of us in service to this fair city may have tender artistic sides worthy of expression?" he teased.

She looked up at him, "Nope."

"Eames! Goren!" Deakins called them from his office then.

"This is Mr. Drew," he went on as they joined him.

"Please tell me you're going to get whoever did this to Chris."

Alex took in the musician as she sat in the chair next to him. He was handsome, roughly forty, dark-haired, slightly graying at the temples. He turned bright blue eyes to her then. She saw hope and sadness there at once.

She smiled at him sympathetically.

"Mr. Drew, we are going to do the best we can. I am Detective Eames. This is my partner, Detective Goren."

"I should never have left town," said David Drew morosely, leaning his face into his hand.

"Where did you go?" she asked gently.

"Boston. Chris and I were scheduled to do some recording there after the first of the year. I got the one a.m. flight out after the show, then went to the studio to try out the instruments they have the next morning... Every pianist has to test the instruments," he explained.

"To find the right feel?" asked Goren.

"Yes. I got back on the noon flight yesterday. We were supposed to do the matinee at four."

"We will need to corroborate that, Mr. Drew."

He nodded, "Whatever you need. Just find this guy."

"We were given to understand that you and Miss Larkins had more than just a professional relationship."

He looked at Alex, "I loved her. You can't imagine what it's like to lose someone you love to senseless violence."

Alex impulsively placed her hand over his then.

"Yes, I can."

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**D**ark had long settled when they finally pulled away from Lincoln Center that evening.

"Damn, it's really coming down now!" said Alex, lifting her collar to the snow.

"Supposed to get worse than this before the week is out."

Alex groaned.

"Well, you were right about the ipod."

"Yeah. But still nothing on the mailing tube, the missing temp doorman, or a motive for why anyone would want Christine Larkins dead."

"And everyone relatively close to her at The Met has not only an alibi, but sworn heartfelt statements about what a wonderful woman she was and how no one would ever want to kill her," she added ruefully.

"Something's missing," he mused. "I think we need a tighter timeline on her activities the night before."

She slowed to a stop at a traffic light.

"We should talk to her manager again too. And I still can't seem to get the pierced navel thing out of my head."

"Those who knew about it did say it seemed out of character for her."

"David Drew said she didn't have it before her fall tour."

"Here she was just beginning a brilliant career. Going on an international tour again in January. Maybe there's a professional jealousy or some such problem somewhere. The shot was clean, almost professional, but she was wrapped up as if someone cared about her. It's just not all clicking together," said Goren as he tugged to loosen his tie and undo the top button of his shirt.

Alex accelerated as the light turned green.

"Well, maybe the financials will reveal something tomorrow," she told him as she ran a hand through her hair, "I really need a haircut," she sighed.

"Sleep for me," he replied wearily.

"Hmm... Sleep. What's that?"

"Still that bad?"

She nodded absently.

"Hey, are you going to see your mother on Christmas eve?" she asked.

"No, just Christmas morning. Why?"

"I just thought..."

"What?" he prompted.

"Nothing."

"Aren't you going to your sister's?"

"Supposed to," she shrugged.

Ah, he thought.

"Lewis and I are going out to some pub he's found. A little jazz. Nothing big. You're welcome to join us."

"Don't want to impede your luck," she smirked.

"Or we yours?" he returned.

"Oh right, because there is, after all, nothing hotter than a woman who's recently given birth."

He had nothing he could say aloud to that.

"Eames..."

She stopped at another light, then eased the SUV forward again when it changed.

"Hmm?"

"I, uh... _Alex! _Look out!" he suddenly yelled, startling her into slamming on the brakes and sending the heavy vehicle into a spin.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"**A**h, shit! Alex? _Alex? _Are you okay? Talk to me!"

Bobby was on his knees in his seat now, leaning over the console to reach her. The driver's side door was grotesquely bent in, the dash airbag all but obstructing her from view.

"Dammit, Alex! Say something!" he called to her as dug for his phone and pocket knife.

He opened the knife as he placed the emergency call, and punctured the airbag in front of her. When he pushed it away, she moaned softly and turned toward him. Her face from temple to jaw was covered in fresh, flowing blood.

"Oh, God..." he breathed, and quickly pulled his handkerchief from his pocket to press against the head wound.

"Alex, can you talk, _please_?" he implored her.

"Where the hell did that guy come from?" she croaked blearily at him.

He smiled in relief.

"He ran the light. We did a three sixty after you hit the brakes and then he hit us."

"This does not feel good," she moaned.

"I doubt it does. Do you have pain anywhere else? Besides your head?"

"Yes, I do. Are you okay, Bobby? You've got blood on your tie. At least I think its blood..."

"I'm fine. Alex, focus: What else hurts?"

"My side..."

He nodded. Ribs.

"Anywhere else?"

"Bobby, I think I'm smelling gas."

Shit. She's right.

"Alex, I'm going to lift you up out of here and then out my side. The other car is blocking your door. I've got to get us away in case there's a fire."

"Okay," she answered weakly.

"It's probably going to hurt a little."

"Last time I heard that, it was quite an understatement, let me tell you...' she began to ramble.

"Alex..." he was pushing the airbag detritus away, lowering her seat back.

"They said that and then a baby came out of me..."

"Alex..." he clicked open his own door behind him.

"The lying bastards! You'd think they could be a little more clear up front about that pain thing, wouldn't you? But, no! All part of their evil plan..."

"Eames, would you just shut the hell up? No time for your schtick now," he barked at her in irritation as he struggled to untangle her seatbelt.

"Arrogant side-of-beef," she mumbled as he put her right arm around his neck.

He slipped his right arm under her knees as she turned her face into his throat.

"Snarky little witch," he responded and felt her lips quirk into a smile against his skin as he hoisted her up.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"**A**lex, come on, wake up. Head wound. You need to be conscious. _Alex!_" he slapped lightly at her cheek.

"_What!_" she complained as she came to. "What happened?" She tried to focus on her surroundings, but couldn't very well. She was cradled in his lap, she felt. They were sitting outside somewhere. Everything hurt. It was cold.

"It's snowing," she said apropos of nothing.

Bobby looked down at her bloodied face, the white of her skin peeping through moonlike in the glow of the street lamp. He was relieved to see her conscious.

"You passed out when I lifted you up. Probably from the pain."

"My luck. I was too late for the epidural too."

"I've phoned in again. They're on their way. The city's been over run with accidents because of the weather."

He pressed his soaked handkerchief more tightly against her temple, clenching his jaw as she winced.

"Bobby, the other driver?"

"Nowhere in sight. His door's open though, he must have run off," he grimaced. "Probably drunk and scared."

"Did you see him?" she asked.

"Just a glimpse. My attention was elsewhere."

She tried to smile then sucked air audibly as if even this small action hurt too much. He watched then as her eyes closed and her head began to loll.

"Alex!" he called loudly to her.

Her eyes fluttered open.

"Come on, Bobby, I haven't had a good sleep in ages," she grumped.

"You've got to stay awake."

"Hmmm..." she drifted again.

"So, _Alex!_" he tried loudly, "Is it the upper thigh?"

She opened her eyes again, "Excuse me?"

"Your tattoo? I've been wondering. The upper thigh?"

"No," she whispered weakly.

"Lower back?"

"No again."

"You gonna tell me if I guess right?"

"Why, Detective Goren, some might consider that a form of harassment," she turned her face into the crook of his arm then, sighing a little, "The streetlight is too bright here," she complained as she became even more limp in his arms.

He felt his heart race, "Oh, no you don't, Eames! I'm not finished yet. The... the breast?"

She turned her face back to look up at him. He felt her body beginning to shudder.

"Tell you what..." she croaked, her eyes round and deep.

He felt his own well a little as looked down at her. She felt... small to him. Fragile. A ridiculous thought. Alexandra Eames, fragile.

"What?" he managed.

"I'll... I'll tell you something..."

"What's that?" he asked gently, trying to smile for her.

"Verdure," she let the word out, barely.

"_What?_" he was confused.

"The rhyme for 'murder'," she whispered. "It'll make you a very popular guy tomorrow."

And she was unconscious again.


	2. Two

**T**he night before, after the diner conversation, after she'd dropped Bobby off, after she'd parked the SUV in her garage, and after she'd dragged her tired ass up to her apartment, she'd still been unable to sleep.

Dammit.

She rolled over onto her back in her darkened bedroom and stared up at the ceiling.

Did she have post-partum depression? Was all the ibuprofen affecting her brain? _What_ was it?

The baby was where he belonged, she had no doubt of that.

Her work still meant what it always did.

But just as her pelvis was now permanently spread wider, her ribs opened further, her breasts made heavier. Just as these had changed and could not be returned to their previous form no matter how much diet or exercise she employed... Just as all of this was now her, so too had come a sort of shift within that she was at a loss to explain.

She'd been opened up and had given in the most basic and intimate of ways.

And she had been closed and silent for such a long time before.

Since that noisy night of bullets.

But here she was. Open again.

What the hell was she supposed to do about that?

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"**W**hat do you know?" Deakins called as he rushed from the elevator and down the hall toward him.

Bobby looked up at him from where he was pacing before a pair of closed doors.

Deakins took in his blood-spattered appearance and dazed look.

"Nothing yet. I... I rode the ambulance over with her. She was unconscious when we got in."

"Fucking drunk driver most likely," spat Deakins. "You both could have been killed!"

Bobby waited quietly until he was finished.

"I... uh..." he began, running his hand over his coarse hair, struggling for something to hold onto.

"The case..."

"Don't worry about the case right now, Bobby. I'll have Lampley and Valdez follow up on some stuff tomorrow."

Bobby nodded absently.

"I tried to keep her awake... head wound..."

Deakins looked sharply at him then.

"Bobby, have they checked you out? I think you might be in shock. Maybe you should see a doctor yourself."

"No, I'm fine. I'm waiting here to hear about her," he said softly, glancing back at the closed doors again.

"Okay, Bobby."

"Is there any news?"

They both turned to a pretty brown-haired woman who was hurrying past the nurses station. The usually merry crinkles around her eyes creased with concern.

"Sylvia," said Bobby, "I... no, there's no news."

"Are you alright, Bobby?" she demanded immediately. "You're awfully pale. Maybe we need to get you to a chair someplace..."

"No, god dammit!" Bobby shouted, as he turned and paced away from Deakins and his wife. "I. Am. Staying. Here. Until I know something!"

They lapsed into silence immediately.

He looked up at them, "I'm... sorry. I just..."

"It's all right, Bobby," soothed Sylvia. "We understand."

Bobby nodded.

They all turned as one then as the doors finally, miraculously, swung open.

"Detective Goren? Captain Deakins?"

"Yes?" they answered the doctor together.

"I am Dr. Raijmura. Detective Eames has given her permission for me to inform you of her condition."

"How is she?" demanded Deakins.

"They're cleaning her up now, she's still pretty groggy. The head wound received six stitches and she has a concussion. You did well to keep her awake for as long as you did, Detective Goren. Two ribs on her left side are badly bruised and a third fractured, but, at this point, there appears to be no internal bleeding. I'm here to tell you that if not for the side airbags, I would be making a much more serious report to you. I need to keep her for the night for observation, but will send her home tomorrow afternoon. The weather has overrun us with some pretty severe accidents."

"She's... she's going to be okay then?" checked Bobby.

The doctor smiled at him, "Yes, she will."

He sighed then, dropping his forehead into his hand.

"She's still pretty out of it, but I understand that she recently had a baby?"

"Yes. She was a surrogate for her sister," supplied Deakins.

The doctor raised his brows, "Really? Admirable. Well, I'm guessing there may have been some complications at the time? It was difficult to get information from her."

Bobby's head snapped up.

"Complications? What do you mean?"

"I don't know. Possibly significant blood loss. At any rate, my point is that she's seriously anemic and it should have been caught by now if she's only just had the baby. I'll try to track down her doctor tomorrow."

The three digested that for a moment.

"You can go up to see her in twenty minutes," he concluded. "I will look in on her later."

"Thank you, doctor," said Bobby.

His mind was awhirl. He hadn't let himself think too much about the realities, the details, of Alex giving birth. He'd been so distracted by her absence at the time, and, of course, she'd never said anything later...just a joke now and then. He'd wanted to get back to normal as soon as possible upon her return. Had assumed she did as well.

"I think... I'll sit down now," he said.

The Deakinses exchanged glances.

"I'll get you some coffee," said the Captain, once they had him seated in the nearby waiting area.

Sylvia appraised him for a moment.

"She's going to be fine, Bobby."

He blinked and looked at her.

"She... she had complications. And now, anemia. I should have realized..."

"Oh, make sense, Bobby. How could you?"

"I'm her partner. I didn't even let myself think about... _things_ when she had the baby. Just waited until it was over. And I've known she hasn't been feeling too well lately, not sleeping. I thought she was just readjusting."

Sylvia smiled sympathetically, "She _has_ been readjusting and my experience is that most men don't want to think about it. You weren't the father, Bobby. You had your own job to do."

They sat quietly together for awhile over this, Bobby reevaluating his powers of perception, until Deakins strode towards them again, cup of coffee in hand.

"I've called her parents. They can't get in. Snow plows in Long Island haven't reached the residential areas."

"How'd they take it?" asked Bobby, accepting the steaming cup.

"They're a cop's family. When a call like that comes, they expect the worst. When it's a concussion and bruised ribs, they're relieved."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

**H**e steepled his fingers together as he sat in the dim light.

From all he could gather, Christine Larkins had changed in habit and, though more subtly so, in attitude as well, dating from her return from her fall international tour.

Her dresser found her withdrawn, less likely to laugh.

The Stage Manager for her current show said she no longer came early to hangout with the crew, as she had done with previous productions he'd worked on with her.

Her cleaning woman said she'd given her several boxes of pricey clothes for her teenage daughter. Yet, there'd been no new ones in her closet to replace them. A few evening dresses for performances in her dressing room. At home, sweats, some jeans, a simple black dress. All of the finest quality. But pretty slim pickings for a young, beautiful, international celebrity. And no jewelry to speak of.

And then there was Eames' intuition about the pierced navel. David Drew had said she didn't have it before the tour...

He scrubbed his hand over his face.

If he could just focus, he should be able to make something out of all this...

Instead he sighed and turned again to look at Alex lying in the bed.

She was still asleep. Had been since he'd come up to her room two hours before. He watched her breathe for a moment, her chest rise then fall... then leaned forward when he saw her shadowed face contort slightly.

A shallow word erupted from her then as she began to shift fretfully in the bed, "_Stop_.."

He rose and went to her bedside.

"It's okay, Eames," he murmured, as he tentatively brushed his fingertips across her brow, pushing her hair aside.

She breathed more deeply, then settled.

"Knock, knock," he turned to the whispered voice at the door.

"Sylvia, come in," he replied softly.

"How is she?"

"Restless."

Sylvia nodded, "We've been to her place. I've brought clothes, a coat, some boots, her toothbrush... you know, the things she'll want to feel human again."

He took the bag she proffered.

"Thank you. They cut her clothes off in Emergency. Eames'll sure be pissed about that coat, it was her favorite," he laughed hollowly.

Sylvia smiled.

"I was glad to do it, Bobby. Can I get you something from the cafeteria before I go?"

"No, that's fine. Hurry back down. Deakins will be anxious about driving you home in the snow."

"I'll call in the morning."

"Thanks again, Sylvia."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

**S**he stood a few feet before him, completely nude.

He took a breath in, openly surveying her body, as she smiled knowingly, waiting for him.

"I'm fine, Bobby," she assured him.

She seemed fine. There were no bruises along her side, no bandage at her temple. Only smooth, pearl-like skin from her throat to her toes...

Which were painted scarlet.

He swallowed.

And looked back up.

Her breasts were fuller than he'd imagined, and the slight, softening of her belly, curving to a thatch of hair below, stirred him.

She was... _beautiful_. He tried to think of a more meaningful word than this but drew a blank.

"Are... are you sure you're alright?" he checked.

"Of course," she nodded merrily. "Come on..."

She turned and walked away from him then. He, entranced by the way the muscles in her lower back flexed with her strides, jogged after her.

"You should be resting," he told to her when he caught up.

She stopped and turned around, appraising him with an arched brow.

"Why? Don't you want me, Bobby?"

"Alex..." he closed his eyes as if to answer might be painful. "Of course I do."

"But your work is more important?"

He opened his eyes and looked at her, unable to answer.

"Don't agonize so, Bobby," she sympathized. "I'm not leaving you. But we've got now. Tomorrow the building could burn to the ground, but we've got now."

"I need to know there's tomorrow too," he tried to explain.

But she'd come closer now. And then his clothes were gone. Her small cool hand smoothing across his chest. His, seemingly of its own volition, had wrapped around to slide down her back, to cup her and gently squeeze.

She lifted up on tip toe then, stretching her body against his, snaking her arms about his neck, sighing a little moan in his ear. He felt her nipples press against him.

"Oh, God, Alex..." he groaned, wanting all of her then. Wanting all of her and tomorrow too. "_Alex_..."

"Bobby...

Bobby...

_Bobby!_"

He startled at the voice and blinked his eyes open.

The hospital room. Morning. Alex. He flicked his eyes to her bed and saw her there, her brown eyes peering at him curiously.

"You were dreaming," she told him with a smile.

He rubbed his eyes and nodded, trying to stretch his cramped limbs.

Then cleared his throat.

"H– how are you feeling?"

"Probably better than you if you slept in that chair all night."


	3. Three

"She did change," nodded David Drew. "I asked her repeatedly if something had happened, you know, on the tour. But she was evasive. I kicked myself for not going along with her, but it was a symphonic thing. She performed with the symphonies in each of the cities. And I had obligations here. And this last show to prepare for."

"She had no family?" checked Bobby, as he referred to his notes.

"Her father died when she was a child. Her mother retired to Cairo, then she passed away in July. Christine had been their little golden girl. She was educated privately. Her remarkable voice apparent even when she was young. They groomed her for the stage."

"And her father was a political writer?"

Drew nodded again, "He began in the Foreign Service, I think. After he met and married Christine's mother, he quit to write. She came from money. He had emotional problems though. Became paranoid from what Christine told me. A real zealot. From what I understand, things were very tumultuous in the family before his death."

"Friends?"

"She toured so much. Has done so since she was a teenager. I couldn't believe she wanted me. She was a genius. A great artist. I am a good musician. Very good even. But she was great. That she took me on as an accompanist was something, that she let me love her was amazing..." Drew's voice broke then.

"I'm sure you offered her a great deal in return."

"I doubt it," he shook his head sadly. "She would have said so. She was very sweet but honest and would have said so if it were true."

Bobby watched in silence as the pianist withdrew a handkerchief and swiped his eyes.

"This change..." he tried then, bringing the conversation back to where he needed it. "How did it manifest?"

David Drew composed himself and looked Bobby in the eyes, "She became remote. Wanted to see me less. I was on tenterhooks, waiting for her to break up with me any day. She was secretive. There would be afternoons when I wouldn't know where she was. And she had been so regular in her schedule before that. So punctual. Always professional. One day last month..." he looked away sheepishly, "...I followed her."

Bobby lifted his brows, "Where did she go?"

"The library," Drew laughed ruefully. "The New York City Public Library. That's all. The main branch. I couldn't go in to see what she was doing. She would have seen me. I felt so stupid, I didn't follow her again."

"You thought she was seeing someone else?"

Drew looked down.

"It seemed like it could be a possibility."

Bobby nodded and scratched a few notes in his binder.

"Where is your partner today?"

Bobby looked up at this interest in Alex.

"She was in a car accident."

"Oh? Is she alright?"

"She will be."

"Good. She seemed... kind. And... not what you'd expect a detective to be... No offence."

"None taken," said Bobby.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"_Kind? _He doesn't know me very well."

He reached over and clicked off the tape recorder.

"So, there you go. David Drew's story."

He looked at Alex. She was sitting on her sofa, legs tucked under her, wrapped in a patchwork quilt, and gazing out the window to the balcony with a thoughtful gaze.

"I believe he loved her," she finally commented. "Hard to know if she returned the feeling though."

"But is that a motive to kill her?"

"Unless something specific happened, like she did break up with him, he would keep hoping that things between them would improve."

Bobby nodded, then looked over at her sharply when she sighed.

"Are you getting tired?" he asked in concern.

She smiled at him, "No, just restless. I want to get back out and on the case. I've been cooped up here for two days now. Between that and all the fish and spinach you keep bringing for dinner, I may have to make a run for it."

He grinned, "Fish and spinach are...—"

"...High in iron. I know, Bobby. I'm not questioning your research."

"Anemia is nothing to mess with, Eames. Besides it's still snowing like hell and you hate that," he reminded her.

"I can't help you solve a case by listening to recordings of your interviews."

"Oh well, if you want work, I've got stacks of it here," he responded blithely, and reached into his binder to withdraw a dozen or so files. "All Valdez and Lampley's work. Phone records, financials, etc. I haven't had time to look at them yet."

"I think I may be feeling tired after all," she dead panned.

"I'll go start the coffee then," he smiled as he got up.

He glanced over his shoulder before stepping into the kitchen to see her reach for the stack of information. She was reaching with her right arm, he noted, though the files were closer to her left side. Lifting her left arm was still painful, he deduced. She was favoring the ribs below.

Once in the kitchen, he reached for the coffee pot and turned on the tap to fill it. The flow of water taking him back to the night before last...

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"I can't believe you found us a cab," she said wearily, as they came through her apartment door.

"It wasn't easy," he admitted. "No one wants to drive in this weather. But I couldn't let you walk home from the hospital."

He gently eased her coat down off her shoulders, being careful of her ribs.

She turned to smile at him. He could see the exhaustion in her face.

"Thank you," she said simply.

He met her gaze, "How are you feeling?" he asked softly.

"Tired," she admitted. "And I really, _really_ want a bath."

"Are you sure you're up to it?"

"Positive."

"Okay, but leave the door open a crack so I can hear you."

She rolled her eyes, "I'm not going to drown."

"Is there anything I can do for you while you're in there?"

She looked down at her feet.

"What?" he asked.

She looked up at him self-consciously.

"Actually, would you mind putting the kettle on? I have this... I have a hot water bottle I like to put in bed. It's just a silly childhood carry-over."

She wasn't thrilled to admit this, but was just tired enough and in enough pain to fess up to it, anyway.

He smiled at the reveal, "No problem."

He heard the pipes for her bath begin in that noisy New York way as he set the kettle on the stove and began rummaging for the hot water bottle.

He looked down at himself as he waited for the water to boil, still surprised by the blood spattered there.

Her blood.

Scotch on the rocks would be really great right now, he decided.

Once the hot water bottle was filled, and a cup of chamomile made just in case, he headed toward her bedroom, stopping to tap on the slightly ajar bathroom door.

"You okay?" he called.

"Peachy," she called back. "I'd invite you in to see some swell bruises but I know how squeamish you can be about stuff like that."

He chuckled and headed to the closed door down on his right a bit. He had to admit he was slightly curious in a puerile sort of way. He'd never seen her bedroom before.

He turned the knob, pushed the door, and flipped the switch just to the left within.

Okay, not what he expected.

Books.

The room was wall to wall books.

From floor to ceiling, shelves, to a large extent book-filled, lined all four walls.

Well-made too. The edges fitted with molded edges. The single window boxed in finely.

He had a dim memory of her telling him that her kid brother, um..._Gareth?.._. did carpentry as a sideline.

And another from her personnel file (that he hadn't bothered reading until they'd been partnered nearly a year) about a double major? Or maybe a minor? At Columbia...

Moving around the brass four-poster (king-sized, he noted,) he set the tea on a little bedside table (no framed photos), and pulled back the ocean blue quilt to slip the hot water bottle in between soft lemon hued sheets.

The scent rising from them filled his nostrils in a distracting way.

So he turned around to face the books.

And that's how she found him fifteen minutes later.

With a stack in one hand, an open volume atop that, running the finger of the other hand along spines which had just caught his interest.

She crossed her arms and leaned against the doorjamb, watching him in amusement for a moment.

"You probably thought I was scrappier, more the plucky type than the bookish?" she finally asked.

He turned to look at her, "What? No..."

"_No?_" she mused with a small smile. "I think these books are a surprise to you. Don't really fit with that 'up from the bootstraps' profile you have of me in that noggin of yours."

"I wouldn't say that..." he demurred.

"I surprised you," she said again, both pleased and amazed at the same time.

"Eames..."

She nodded knowingly and walked around the bed.

He noticed that she was wearing silk pajamas then. These, at least, were not a surprise. He was well aware that Eames liked sensual fabrics.

She climbed into her bed gingerly, gasping a little when she had to stretch sore muscles to do so.

"You okay?"

He set the books down and came to her side, helping her adjust the pillows.

"I will be," she told him. "Go home, Bobby. You've had an awful time too. And burn that bloody shirt while you're at it," she added. "I've a fair idea of how much that tie alone cost. I'll replace them for you."

"Don't be silly," he scoffed as he smoothed her quilt. "How's the hot water bottle?" he asked looking into her eyes.

She sighed blissfully, "Perfect. Thank you so much. For everything. It's warm and... cozy..."

He could see her getting sleepy already and smiled.

"Sounds nice. Maybe I should try it sometime."

"You won't regret it..." she mumbled, as he watched her eyes close.

He waited until her breathing evened out, then softly, almost furtively, yet careful of the bandage, kissed her forehead and left.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Hey," she said coming into the kitchen, "Mom brought cookies this morning if you'd like some."

He startled from his fixed stare at the perking coffee pot.

"What?" he asked absently, coming back into the present. "Oh..."

Files. Work. Case. Focus.

"You looked a million miles away," she commented as she reached for a paper bag in the bread box.

"Not that far," he returned, the image of her sleeping in the nearby book-filled bedroom still on his brain these two days later.

"I've found something in Valdez and Lampley's files," she told him then.

"What's that?"

"David Drew rented a car in Boston."

His brain clicked to where it should with that.

"We'll call the company and find out the mileage," he decided.

"It is possible that he flew to Boston, then drove here before returning again to Boston to catch his flight home."

Goren nodded.

"Man, I thought he was one of the few good guys left out there," she said as she took the bag of cookies back into the living room.

He stared after her.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Eames spent the next two days in her apartment going over all of Valdez and Lampley's solid work. Her livingroom serving as base from which Goren could proceed with legwork.

By Saturday afternoon they had a somewhat clearer picture of Christine Larkins and her life but were no closer to clearly identifying a suspect or motive.

Bobby liked Drew for it though couldn't sort out the why of the thing.

Alex was thinking the doorman a likely suspect.

The rental car company had had a computer malfunction and were busy reestablishing their records. It would be several days before they could report the mileage on the car Drew had rented.

And they didn't want to tip him off with questioning until they had more.

Still nothing on the missing temp doorman, the name they had for him clearly an alias not in the system.

Their usual luck was not holding for them on this case, that was clear.

Dead ends abounded.

While Bobby spent the morning at Lincoln Center re-interviewing all those who had seen Christine the night of her death, Alex identified several new and significant pieces of information about her.

First, her bank accounts were at pretty minimal levels. She had wired considerable sums of money to off shore accounts.

Second, two weeks before her death she'd met with her lawyer and had drawn up a new will. They'd have a subpoena on Monday to get hold of it.

Third, she had spoken to her building manager about possibly selling her condo.

And finally, that she had been seeing a psychiatrist, one Dr. Marjorie Shendrick, twice a week since her mother's death the previous July.

It seemed remarkable that David Drew didn't know about any of these things when Alex called him up regarding it all.

"I assure you, Detective, I hadn't the foggiest," he sighed over the phone to her. "You say she was thinking of getting rid of her apartment?"

"That's what it looks like," confirmed Alex. "What about this Dr. Shendrick? You didn't know anything about Christine seeing her?"

"I know she was upset after her mother's death. It was sudden. She may have needed to see someone about it. I don't know why she didn't talk to me though..."

Alex chewed her pen for a moment. The guy seemed sincere. But she'd seen perps give Academy Award winning performances in the past.

"And the money?" she took one final stab.

Drew paused a moment.

"Well, I know she sent donations to various charities in Cairo. He mother was on several committees there, but..."

"These would be some pretty significant contributions," observed Alex dryly.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Two hours later, Goren was ringing her bell.

She opened it with a wry smile, "If you have any food products on you which contain iron, I am not letting you in."

"I'm clean," he assured her.

She stepped aside to allow him entry.

"Any luck?" she asked as he slipped off his coat and ambled into the living room to settle with a sigh.

"No one remembers the mailing tube. Stage Manager remembered that she directed an intern to have all the flowers in her dressing room taken over to the Children's Hospital before she left, but he also said that wasn't unusual."

Alex sat next to him.

"We can't see Shendrick until Monday," she told him.

He nodded.

"Of course psychiatrists aren't really famous for being forthcoming about their patients, even if they are dead."

He nodded again.

They sat quietly for a moment, their defeat tangible, their brains spinning.

Until he looked over at her.

"Would you like to come to Carmel Ridge with me tomorrow?" he asked.

She looked up at him in surprise.


	4. Four

**B**efore the quiet between them, the acceptance, there'd been a little noise.

That first year she could have cheerfully kneed his balls right up through the roof of his mouth on several occasions.

Without blinking. Completely justified. No jury would convict.

"Don't you walk out of here on me, you Arrogant Side-of-Beef!" she'd barked at him in the conference room after work one night.

He eyed her darkly.

"That all you got? Nothing but snark? Snarky Little Witch," he dismissed her with a roll of his eyes, a wave of his hand.

But she stood her ground, no sweat.

Which was unsettling.

And she was blocking the door.

_Bite me_, _jackass_, she thought.

_Go to hell_, _Thumbelina, _he thought back.

Alex knew that in most places in life, one can get along by being polite. Occasionally, direct. One can even employ avoidance, if need be.

In most places this works well enough.

Hell, she knew from experience that this formula _did_ work. The fact that she was on speaking terms with her mother right now was proof of that.

There were three instances that she could think of, however, in which this did not work.

If one wanted to be successful, that is.

Rock Bands.

Marriage.

And, Detective Partnerships.

If you don't learn how to fight, you don't have a chance in hell of surviving.

Nearly four years ago Alex Eames had been partnered with the infamous Robert Goren. He hadn't been exactly enthusiastic about this fourth new partner in as many years. Didn't even bother reading her file before he met her. What was the point? Hadn't even known she _was a she _until they met. It simply had not mattered.

Roughly six months in, Eames was up to her forehead with his crap.

If she could have reached up, grabbed him by the ear, and dragged his pontificating ass into the conference room to have it out, she would have.

But she was a professional. And so they must talk...

"I am not here to be your fucking Mr. Watson, _Sherlock!_" she yelled at him.

Well, most of the time she was a professional.

"No, that would involve an appreciation for the creative mind, _Detective_," he shot back.

She glared at him, took a deep breath, and paced away.

Composing herself then she turned back.

_Either find a way or make one, Alexandra, _she heard Dad in her head.

"Look, Goren..."

"Oh, give it up, Eames! You want to get reassigned? You want to go the way of my last three partners? Be my guest!" he shouted, throwing out his arm in a dramatic gesture of farewell.

She stared at him a moment. Then, becoming thoughtful, cocked her head and stared harder.

He looked back for as long as he could.

Her penetration was unsettling.

She took a deep breath.

"When I said that a shark might have killed her, _I was joking_, Mr. Genius," she told him.

He expelled a breath of his own and rubbed a hand along the back of his neck before looking at her again.

"I know," he answered, meeting her gaze again.

She nodded and remained thoughtful another moment before responding.

And then put her hands on her hips and leveled a look at him.

"Here's how it's gonna be, Big Man," she told him: "You. Will. Learn. To. Appreciate. My. Droll. Humor."

He boggled a moment at this. _What the fuck?_

"Excuse me?" he checked.

"It's actually one of my best qualities," she shrugged mildly.

"What?"

"You heard me," she told him, then got serious again, "I don't mind being treated like one of the guys, Goren. Not at all. I've earned my place here. I am a hundred and five pounds of Right To Be Here, buddy. Same as you, smaller package."

He took in her taut figure and uplifted chin. He'd seen her marksmanship medal. Knew her rep., even if he hadn't bothered reading her file.

"I don't doubt that..." he told her sincerely.

"Good," she replied. "So stop with this Schizo bouncing from Macho Cocky to Sactimonious in five seconds flat bullshit, because I'm not going anywhere. I am not the enemy. I am not here to be sneaked away from so you can follow your own leads. I am your partner. And I'm staying put."

His eyes had widened at the 'Schizo' reference.

"Go on," was all he said.

"So we work this out here and now," she continued. "I've got a lot to learn from you, Goren, I am smart enough to see that. I haven't had much profiling experience. But I do have a whole perspective you don't consider, and you're missing out on something good with that."

He appraised her quietly.

It had been a long time since he'd tried to hash anything out with someone. Not over anything important anyway. And his work was it for him; intellectual stimulation, consistency, and validation. He'd pretty much decided to do without everything else.

Usually in the hashing out of things, or so his experience had been, the other party eventually gave up. And he'd known how to help that giving up along when need be. There are plenty of tricks for hurrying people away, if that's what you want to do.

What he didn't know how to do was facilitate the hanging around.

He tried to remember then the last time he'd in fact wanted someone to hang around.

He looked at her more closely. Those deep, alert eyes boring right back.

And sighed ruefully.

She'd have to be beautiful, of course.

"You... you'd have to be less by the book... more... _flexible_... I mean, I'm not a rogue, Eames, whatever they've been saying, but I need... _room_."

"I can do that," she told him simply.

He blinked at this act of reason.

"You can?" he was dubious.

"Sure," she quirked an effortless brow, "I'll use my black magic. Witches do that."

_Damn_, he thought.

She leaned in to him then.

"They've even been known, occasionally, to buy their partners a beer, Goren."

They stared one another down for a last moment then. Just for good measure.

Until, at last, he nodded and she stood up a little straighter in triumph, and they both breathed in relief.

Then he opened the door for her.

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**I**t was getting slightly easier each day to raise her arms high enough to wash her hair in the shower. It still hurt like a sonofabitch, but the pain no longer made her see stars.

She turned then to let the warm water stream down the back of her head.

It was something that Bobby had asked her to come with him to Carmel Ridge this morning. Something inexplicable.

She'd done the yeoman's tour of Schizophrenia online once. Knew a bit about it now. Had felt she should after first learning about his mother.

For instance, she knew that many people have very mild non-clinical forms of it. Mostly men.

It would manifest itself in the way a man would go about his life. He was one person at work. And another at home. Two worlds, two approaches to life. Fully functional in both. It was reassuring to such men to have this sort of order in their lives. This distinction.

The problems came about when these worlds overlapped. When wifey showed up at the office, by way of example. The negotiation of the clash between who he was at home and who he was at the office might well raise blood pressure and cause stress in the extreme.

She'd pegged Bobby in this category.

And Eames was no lightweight in the sensitivity department. She didn't like anyone to know this about her, but it was true. She was well aware that through their years together, she'd become Bobby's True North. His Old Reliable. In his daily working life, that is. Which, admittedly, was most of their waking hours.

But the dark underbelly which was Bobby's _other life _had always been off limits to her. She'd met the odd friend of his now and then, but knew with absolute certainty that on those occasions when he'd come to work unshaven, baggy-eyed, and well, _haunted_ looking, for lack of a better word, she must keep her questions to herself.

And she had.

She'd never let Bobby down in this, or in anything else for that matter. This was a point of pride with her.

So this Carmel Ridge thing. This overlapping of worlds was causing quite a blip on her Bobby radar.

"It's a nice drive and you haven't been out in days," he'd shrugged when she pressed him on it.

So she let it be.

She got slowly out of the shower then and grimaced as she began to towel off. She'd caught a look at herself in the mirror. The bruises blooming along her ribcage had turned a shade of daffodil yellowish-green.

Ugh.

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**H**e'd stopped at D'Agostino's early to pick up one of those flat basket trays of dried fruit from California. Her eyes always lit up when he brought one. The dates, apricots and figs spread out prettily delighted her. And it had been awhile since he'd thought to get her one.

He'd also bought Alex a steaming cup of Mexican chocolate.

A selfish prick is what he is.

He knows it. He has no business dragging her with him all the way out to the dressed-up Loony Bin that has been his mother's home for over two decades.

And he's not even sure why he asked her to come.

He's decided that for once he's not going to analyze.

It's one of those Winter mornings that is so clear, bright, and blue, even in the city, that one has to wear sunglasses. The roads are open and in good condition (he'd checked before leaving) and he just wants to drive.

Usually he spends these drives going over the current case in his mind.

After he'd left Eames' apartment the evening before, he'd dropped by the public library. Belva, one of the night librarians, was a pal of his and had done some under-the-table noodling on the computer for him.

Christine Larkins had been avidly devouring her father's political articles, treatises, and books. She'd cross-referenced his theories and had read counter theories. She'd done a helluva lot of seat time...

_He'd only thought Alex could do with an outing. Some sunshine, some time out of the city. That's all._

...To say that Zel Larkins had been critical of capitalism, colonialism, and all US involvement in the Middle East was an understatement. This, of course, was not remarkable. Lots of intellectuals felt similarly. But to openly advocate violent revolt as opposed to civil disobedience, or open elections, _was_ unusual for someone of his background...

_His mother had been doing so well for the past three months. She always liked company, it never failed to perk her up. So there it was. A simple meeting of convenience--- Alex needing an outing and Mom liking company. _

... But what had prompted Larkins' sudden need to read her father's work? And how had it contributed to her murder? For he felt with that familiar prickling sensation along the back of his neck that they were connected...

_Why was he jeopardizing things? Why was he playing with what had been good and consistent and right in his life for four years? What kind of self destructive ass tries to turn the only stability he has ever known outside of the Army into... whatever it was he was trying to turn it into? What was he trying to turn it into? He remembered her eyes then, that night in the diner... _

'_I don't see why things have to be as they've always have been, Bobby.'_

_Well, he did. He sure as hell did._

...Christine Larkins had made deliberate changes in her life. Her perfect life of fame and art was all that most people coveted. Yet she had deliberately opened Pandora's Box. And then she'd been murdered. Alex would call that the ironic moral of the story. He only thought it the way of life. But what were the reasons behind it all? It was so much easier to figure these out for other people...

He sighed then as he turned onto Eames' street.

She was standing still on the front steps of her building in the bright winter morning in her long navy coat, her chin tilted up to the sun, a small smile playing over her lips. He imagined that her eyes might be closed too but couldn't be sure because of the sunglasses she wore. In her gloved hands before her she clasped a small potted violet, edged in lacy paper.

And he felt a kind of peace at the sight...

He was a selfish prick.

He double parked before the building and hopped out to come around and open the door for her. Her lips pursed in amusement at this but she said nothing.

Once in and on their way, he stole a glance at her.

"You didn't need to wait outside," he told her.

She shrugged, "The sun was so nice this morning and I wanted to walk over to Isador's for the flowers."

He nodded.

"How are you feeling?"

"A little better."

"Good."

He turned his eyes to the light Sunday morning traffic out of the city, then. And they were silent.

Until her phone rang.

"Eames. Oh hey, Carmen."

He glanced over in interest.

"...No. No problem. I'm glad you called. What have you got?

...Really? Interesting." She pulled her notebook out of her purse to jot a few words.

"...Carmen, I really appreciate this. Yeah. Goren and I owe you..."

She turned her eyes merrily to Bobby next to her then.

"...I don't know. _That_ you'd have to ask him. Don't go getting yourself into a harassment situation, though, honey. And the word on the street is that he is one faithless hound...

...No, he can't get to the phone right now, sorry...

...Could you email that stuff to me? Okay, thanks again, Carmen."

She clicked off the cell.

"We got a pop on the missing doorman. His alias turned up in one of the international data bases at the FBI. And, get this, he's been linked to a terrorist cell."

Goren raised his brows, "Really?"

"Carmen's trying to find a 'last known' for him right now but she's got a picture. Not a great one, it's from a surveillance camera. She's going to email everything she can get over to me this evening at the latest. So, what do you think?"

"I'm not sure..."

"She also wants to know if you'll meet her for a drink sometime."

Bobby groaned.

She laughed.

"You wouldn't have to stoop over to hear her talk."

He rolled his eyes.

"What? Not your type?"

He looked sideways at her with meaning, "No."

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**T**hey talked the case as they rode. Alex feeling life vibrate through her again as she and Bobby worked through variables in the old way.

And the sun felt warm and good. The hot chocolate, heavenly.

And she actually got Bobby to laugh once or twice which was always a satisfying accomplishment.

All too soon they were pulling up the sweeping drive at Carmel Ridge.

She didn't know what she'd expected. It was beautiful. Stately and colonial. The grounds extensive.

Once they were in the lobby, Bobby led her to a desk for them to sign in.

"Bobby, you're late this morning!" called out a bubbly redhead as they approached.

"Morning, Julie," he said neutrally.

Alex looked over at him at this. Then saw with no little interest as the receptionist's expression immediately narrowed at the sight of her.

"Julie, this is Alex Eames," he introduced her as he signed them in.

"Hello," smiled Alex.

"Bobby's never brought a guest with him before," was the prim reply.

"See you later, Julie," called Bobby as he took her elbow and guided her through a nearby set of doors.

They proceeded down a long windowed hall then in silence.

Alex was confused. It was easy to see that Bobby had been flirting in that meaningless way he had with Julie for sometime now. He'd never hesitated to do this in her presence before. In fact, it had proven a very useful method of getting information. Bobby's effortless charm was legendary. And he could pour it on thick. And turn it off just as quickly. Coldly almost, she'd noticed in the past.

So, what was different about today? Why'd he turn the spoutoff on Julie?

She stole a glance at him as they walked, but his face was shuttered.

Finally, he stopped before a door. The nameplate read 'Margaret Goren'.

He turned and looked down at her, clearly in some distress.

"Eames, she's been doing so well for the past few months..."

She placed her hand on his arm then. And they both looked down at it laying there. This being a singular and intimate touch between them.

He looked up then and met her eyes.

_Did he look nervous?_

"Bobby, it'll be fine. It's_ me_ here."

"I know. That's just it," he told her softly before knocking lightly and reaching to turn the knob.


	5. Five

**K**ol Arano.

The latest of many aliases on the missing doorman. Carmen had found her a 'last known' though couldn't say how recent or reliable it was. But it was something. She tapped her foot in impatience as the elevator rose slowly to the eleventh floor. It was still quite early. They could call in some uniforms and head over to the address in Hell's Kitchen right away. They were desperate for a break on the Larkins murder. Finding the doorman would be a real score.

She was tired, she had to admit it, if only to herself. She'd had another bad night. Though this one, at least, she could blame on her trip to Carmel Ridge, she supposed.

And Bobby.

She'd left several messages for him last night after their trip. At first she'd only wanted to talk to him about it all, check that he was okay, that his mother was still okay, that _they_ were okay. But after no answer or return call from him after the third message, she was more than a little pissed.

Well, screw him. Time for work.

The elevator rang open and she strode down the hall toward the office, her heels clicking as she went. She'd taped up her ribs extra tight and was down to just a large band aid on her temple.

She'd had more than enough idling at home this year. She was ready for work.

"Eames!" said Deakins in surprise, "I didn't expect you in today."

"Didn't Goren tell you?" she looked around for Bobby.

Deakins shook his head, "He left about fifteen minutes ago. Wanted to be at Dr. Shendrick's office when she got in. Are you sure you're up to working?"

"I'm fine." _Just irritated_. "Listen, I've got a 'last known' on the missing doorman. I need a few uniforms to go check it out."

"Maybe you should wait until Goren gets back..."

"Excuse me?" her eyes sparked.

"Calm down, Eames. I'm not slighting you. But you were in the hospital last week..."

"With all due respect, _Captain_, my _calming down_ is not going to solve this murder. This may be our only shot at this guy. If Goren's gone off to do his thing, so be it. This lead could be stone cold by the time he's finished serenading Marjorie Shendrick."

Deakins looked down his long nose at her. She was right, of course. Didn't mean he had to like it though.

"Fine. Call in what you need. I'll inform Goren when he calls in."

"Yeah, you do that. _If_ he calls in," snapped Alex as she stalked over to place the necessary phone calls.

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She'd held her breath just a bit as Bobby had opened his mother's door the morning before...

She looked about curiously.

It was a pretty room as such rooms go.

Little pink roses on the wall paper. Brimming bookshelves. Art prints on the walls. A pretty coverlet on the hospital bed.

The lady herself was sitting in a recliner before a large window overlooking a small frozen lake with woods beyond. A crocheted afghan tucked around her waist.

And she couldn't have appeared more normal if Central Casting had just sent her over to play a part, right down to the tortoiseshell glasses on her nose.

"Robert!" smiled his mother as they came in.

Her eyes, _his eyes_, noted Alex, were bright as new pennies.

"Hello, Mom," he said softly and walked over to kiss her gray head.

"Is this the lady detective you told me about?" she asked then.

"Yep," he responded. "Mom, this is Alex Eames."

"Hello, Alex," she smiled and reached out her hand.

"It nice to meet you, Mrs. Goren," smiled Alex in return, taking the frail hand in her own.

"Bobby!" barked the older woman then. "Manners! Take this pretty lady's coat."

He chuckled and obliged.

She gestured Alex to a chair opposite, "_Sit, sit_..." and proceeded to survey her.

"Well, Alex, you are very brave indeed to come and see a crazy old lady," she twinkled.

Bobby pulled a chair out of the nearby desk, placed it between them, and sat down.

"Oh, I can get you in a choke hold if I need to," responded the ever-dry Alex.

Bobby's eyes widened as he glanced quickly at his mother.

Who had immediately burst into hearty laughter.

"_You_ may call me Margaret. Or, better yet, _Meg_. Mother had a thing for _Little Women_. My sister Beth thought for sure she'd die before the age of fifteen," she winked at Alex. "Are those for me?" she pointed to the potted violets Alex held in her lap.

"Absolutely," said Alex, handing them over.

"They're very pretty. Thank you," said Mrs. Goren, as she set them on the sill before her. "And you, Robert? What have you brought me today?" she looked over at her son full of expectation.

Bobby turned to his Burberry laying across the foot of the bed and withdrew the dried fruit from its ample pocket.

"Ah!" exclaimed Mrs. Goren, smacking her lips a bit, "Figs!"

"Californian, not the Sicilian," he assured her.

"Thank heavens," said the older lady as she peeled back the plastic wrap, and popped a fig into her mouth. She closed her eyes for one happy moment and proclaimed them, "Delicious."

She reached out to offer Alex one then.

"Oh, no thanks."

"My mother-in-law would always have those dreadful Sicilian things around," she scowled then. "The Californians are superior by far."

An awkward silence followed, filled only by Mrs. Goren's happy munching.

"I see you are quite a reader, Mrs.— Ah, _Meg_," said Alex.

She crossed to the bookshelves then, "Grimm? Anderson? I see you have quite a collection of children's literature."

"Mom wrote some of the first feminist essays on fairy tales when she was at Yale," Bobby told her then.

His mother beamed.

"Really? That's very impressive," commented Alex as she continued to survey the collection. "Like mother like daughter, hunh, Meg?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"You are Meg from _Little Women_. I see here _A Child's Garden of Verses _among others," she shot Bobby a sardonic eye, "Now I know where the Louis is from."

"Ah, yes," smiled Mrs. Goren. "Well spied, Alex. The Scotsman who tried so hard. No one ever thought him quite good enough though, poor man. Not as deep as Rusk. Trying too hard, they thought. That was Robert Louis Stevenson. I felt he had a few original ideas, however."

Alex stole a glance at Bobby then, who seemed to be studying his hands in his lap with some intensity.

"What about Richard?" asked Alex as she returned to her chair.

They older woman's face darkened immediately.

"What about him?"

_Oops_, thought Alex, "I was just wondering for whom Bobby's older brother was named."

"Call him Robert, please," sniffed Mrs. Goren. "I dislike diminutives for men. Richard was named for his father."

"How is Room Fourteen doing this week, Mom?" asked Bobby then.

"She is what she always is," dismissed his mother with an irritated wave of her hand. "Perhaps, as a detective, _Alex_, instead of asking prurient questions about my family life, you could help me solve a small mystery instead..."

"Mom..." interjected Bobby.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Goren, I didn't mean to offend you."

"It's of no consequence."

"What is your mystery?"

"Mom..." Bobby leaned toward his mother then, placing a hand gently on her forearm.

"Leave off, Robert!" she snapped at him. He pulled his hand gently away, turning to look out the window instead.

"_My son _here, Alex. _My son _has never wanted to believe anything I say."

Alex noticed the tightening in Bobby's jaw out of the corner of her eye.

"I'm sure that's not..."

"It's hard to believe, I know," the lady interrupted her, "But I assure you, it is true. And a detective, he's supposed to be!"

"_Mom_..." only the voice now, no physical contact.

"Don't _Mom_, me, sir," she hissed at him. "Mrs. Jenkins _right next door_ was raped, Robert!"

He sighed and looked at her, "No, Mom. She wasn't. She fell and broke her hip."

"You there, _Miss Marple!_" she called over to Alex then, "Do you see what I have to endure? The elderly are never believed. And _elderly women_?" she snorted, "Not a snowball's chance in hell. I could be next, Bobby. Then you would have to call your father and tell him what happened. I'd like to hear _that call_, I'll tell you."

"Mom, _think_," Bobby leaned forward further, placing his arms on his knees, lowering his head to look up at her, "Remember how Dr. Jiminez came and explained it to you? It _was_ a broken leg. Not a rape."

Mrs. Goren stared into her son's face for a moment, then shifted uncomfortably, and turned to look out the window.

"Dr. Jiminez, Mom. You trust her. I know you do," he reminded her gently.

They all sat with that for a moment. Until Mrs. Goren sighed and nodded her head ever so slightly.

She turned back to Alex then.

"I'm sorry," she said directly.

Alex nodded and tried to smile.

"So, Alex, where did you go to school?"

"Columbia."

"Robert here went to NYU through the Army plan, but I suppose you know that. Let's see, Criminal Justice, I suppose? Anything else?"

"Literature," said Alex.

Bobby looked at her then.

"I double-majored, actually," she explained

"Hmm," nodded Mrs. Goren. "What was your thesis on?"

"Millay's _Second April_."

Bobby looked at her again.

"Ah!" Mrs. Goren clasped her hands together in delight, "Wonderful! Wonderful!"

She began quoting then,

"Oh, little leaves that are so dumb  
Against the shrieking city air,"...

Alex finished it for her, careful to ignore Bobby's scrutiny,

"I watch you when the wind has come,--  
I know what sound is there."

She shot Bobby the 'Shut up' look when she finished, but he held no sarcasm for her.

She sighed at herself over this. He never did.

They sat in a more comfortable silence then.

"Bobby, go get us our lunch!" called out his mother suddenly. "I'll have pudding today, please."

"Would you like to come with me?" he asked Alex.

"She'll be fine with me," his mother dismissed him, "Now run along."

Bobby got up to go then, but Alex didn't miss a fleeting look of concern as it passed over him. He closed the door behind him then and began the walk down the hall to the cafeteria.

He popped his jaw as he went. Trying to relieve the TMJ he'd forgotten he had. It always came back at Carmel Ridge.

It could have been worse, he tried to reason with himself, remembering the day she wouldn't talk to Rick or his sister-in-law when they'd come to visit last summer. They'd flown all the way from Seattle and received nothing but silence.

He stepped up his pace a little then, not certain why, and signaled one of the attendants as he stepped into the food hall. The institutional smell of steam plates and canned corn filled his nostrils.

On the way back down the hall, pushing a tray cart before him, he glanced out the window at the still-bright day and thought that he maybe he wasn't going to regret this after all.

Whatever it was.

He amended this immediately though when he looked up and saw Alex standing grim-faced outside his mother's closed door, her navy coat back on.

_Shit._

He hurried to her.

"What happened?"

She lifted her chin and smiled for him, "Nothing, Bobby. I think it was just too much company for her for one morning."

"Eames..."

"I have been cooped up for so long, I think I'll go have a walk around. Why, don't you go back in to her, and I'll meet you up front later?"

"What did she..."

"Absolutely nothing. I'll see you in a little while."

She turned away then and headed down the hall.

"_Alex_..." he called softly.

She turned to see the open pain on his face, his hand on the doorknob.

"Go on," she smiled and turned around again, trying to swallow what felt like a golf ball in her throat.

She heard the door open behind her then.

"Robert, Cleopatra only had _a viper _in _her_ nest! And you bring..."

And the door closed on the poor woman's quiet sob.

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"Alex!" Deakins called as she was heading to the lockers for a vest.

She stopped and turned to him, "What's up?"

"We just got a fax from that Car Rental Agency in Boston. It seems that our friend David Drew made quite a trip."

"As in from Boston to New York and back again?"

"That would fit, yes."

_Dammit._

"Could you have someone bring him in for questioning? I've got to get to Hell's Kitchen for Kol Arano."

"Absolutely. You can question him when you get back."

"Thanks, Captain."

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After the scene with Mrs. Goren, she'd walked out through reception at Carmel Ridge, feeling Julie's daggers as she went.

Poor Bobby.

Poor Meg.

She walked outside and finding a cleared path leading out toward the frozen pond, struck out on it.

By the time she'd circled it and made her way back to the parking lot, Bobby was standing in front of the car waiting for her.

She met his eyes only briefly as she approached. He'd looked away quickly to open the passenger door for her.

She got in and waited for him to come around.

After he got in they sat quietly for a moment, staring out through the front window.

"Is she okay?" she finally asked.

"She's fine. Asleep now," he answered without emotion.

"I'm sorry, Bobby," she said turning toward him and laying her hand atop his.

He pulled it away instantly and started the car.

"So am I," he said as they pulled out of the parking space.

The drive home was quiet.

Alex made occasional half-hearted attempts at discussing the case. All of which Goren answered monosyllabically.

By the time they were in front of her building, they'd been silent for most of an hour.

Now Alex could see. Now she understood.

Moreover she knew that Bobby was kicking himself for taking her at all. For letting her see.

"Don't get out," she said quietly, after he'd stopped and made a move to unbuckle his seatbelt.

She unhooked her own.

"You don't need to open my door," she told him.

He nodded.

"Thank you for coming," he said softly, still avoiding her eyes.

"Thank you for taking me."

She studied his profile for just a moment, then making a decision, leaned over and kissed him gently just on the corner of his mouth.

Then pulled away to study him again.

He looked back at her now. But his face a mask. His eyes over-bright.

"I was mistaken, Eames. About everything. I was mistaken," he told her clearly.

She felt rather than heard this statement. In her stomach, with a whoosh. Like pushing a fist into a pillow.

"I see."

"I shouldn't have taken you. You're my partner. It wasn't appropriate."

She was feeling the cold now in the old way. And eyed the cup holding the dregs of this morning's Mexican chocolate in the cup holder. It would no longer be warm either.

"Why did you take me?" she asked then.

He shrugged, "No reason. Thought you'd like a day out is all. Just a silly idea," he tossed off.

His nonchalance was perfectly convincing.

"Bobby, you've never been silly a day in your life," she told him and got out of the car.

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"Okay, Hahn, you go around to the side window. This place is on the ground floor and I don't want him slipping out if he's in there. Caber, you're my back up. Do we all understand?"

"Yes, ma'am," they said in unison.

"Then let's go get this guy."

She and Caber slowly approached Arano's door, weapons drawn.

She held her badge up to the peephole. Caber knocked.

"Mr. Arano! This is the police. We need to ask you a few questions. Open up, please," she called out.

At that moment the door behind them opened to reveal a little girl in a pink dress. She was sucking on the foot of a Barbie.

"Who are you?" she asked.

Caber turned to address the child just as Arano's door burst open. A man blew out then knocking Caber to the ground and slamming Alex against the wall. He ran for the front door of the building then.

"Hahn! Around front!" she called as she hauled ass after him.

She caught hold of his jacket on the front stoop and jumped on his back. Hahn and Caber were by her side immediately to help her pin him down.

She holstered her weapon, grabbed her cuffs off her belt and snapped them on as the he lay face down on the frozen sidewalk.

"Kol Arano?" she breathed.

"Who wants to know?"

"You're under arrest, Mr. Arano."

"What for?"

"Turning my bruises purple again, dammit! Read him his rights, guys."

Caber and Hahn hauled Arano off to the black and white then.

While Alex stood a moment, her hand at her side, trying to catch her breath.


	6. Six

**I**t had been a pissing contest really.

It's a modern age, he'd reflected. No reason why and a man and woman couldn't have one. Figuratively, anyway. Unfortunately, there'd been the childish name calling too (not a proud moment for either.) But ultimately it had been a test of nerves, of trust, and, in its way, of sex-role boundaries.

And when it came down to it, he had no problem with strong women and she had no problem with unorthodoxy. He'd only needed room. She, communication. Both, respect. And trust.

So, a man-woman story as old as time--- for a modern age.

They'd had their beer after that first hashing out of the way it was going to be, and, for once, he thought maybe he was in a partnership that might work. They'd only been together for six months, so only time would tell. But the outlook was better than it had ever been for him before.

The morning after the fight he came in early to read her file.

Spotless record, a widow—went back to work a week later. Yep, that was Eames. A university degree, commendations, and the disgraced cop for a dad. Also, notably, the particular degradation a woman who wanted to rise through the ranks in this job must face: A tour in vice. But all these he'd heard rumblings of before.

What he needed to do was read between the lines. Easy enough. Or so he thought then.

For Alexandra Elizabeth Eames, it was clear. Her watch word, her life's tether, began and ended with honor.

To be an exemplary police woman to compensate for her fallen father. To carry on for a husband lost in the line of duty. To stand for all the women in line behind her who took shit daily from the men they worked with.

Perfectly clear.

Even nearly four years later, after they'd meshed so well for so long, the surrogacy for her sister had amounted to the same thing. Honor. To do the best she could by those she loved.

Her perfect solidarity with him meant this as well, he knew. The choices he'd made that she did not fully agree with never prevented her from standing by his side, even to her own detriment. She'd slap Carver's ears back in Goren's defense, then once Carver left the room, turn around and slap his back too.

Only, in private.

Her loyalty to him was not a question. And therefore neither was his to her.

Honor.

Not so easy to read between the lines now though. Apparently they'd been redrawn a bit when he hadn't been paying attention.

In the month or so since the baby's birth, he knew something had changed within her. He wasn't sure what. Perhaps it had been building quietly for some time before that, but the anxiety of adjusting to her replacement had distracted him.

And her subsequent surprising request for greater intimacy between them, furthered along by the car accident hadn't given him any greater insight into what had been the nature of that change.

He did wonder though what she had done with the loyalty she undoubtedly held for the baby she'd birthed.

A mother's heart walled up in an aunt.

Giving up a baby for any thirty-nine year old woman must be difficult, he reasoned. She had no husband. Hadn't dated in nearly a year. _'Men don't hit on pregnant women, oddly enough,' _she'd cracked once.

It would be a painful wrench for any woman. For Alex, he could only imagine.

Part of being honorable is about not letting on though.

Honor was an archaic concept, he reflected then, which made him wonder about his own.

He'd seen a bit of it in the Army, where such old notions die hard. And certainly he went to Herculean lengths to nail the guilty, but he held few illusions about this. It was far too much about the game for him. Not out of any sense of fun, but out of challenge, and the steely need to find answers. He wasn't without compassion. But those around him often mistook his finely honed empathy for that compassion.

They weren't the same thing at all.

No, he well knew that Eames had the purer heart. His neurons might fire faster, but her intent was the more noble.

He took another deep gulp of the coffee he'd bought on the way over, and shifted slightly on the bench where he'd been waiting for this last half hour.

At least it was indoors, he reasoned. He'd certainly waited around in far less hospitable settings than a fine marble lobbies featuring original art.

Shendrick wouldn't be in for ten or fifteen minutes, most likely. But he hadn't wanted to be in the office when Eames came in that morning.

Yeah, he's being a dick.

But he still needed... well, distance. Those damn eyes of her saw too much.

Boundaries clearly needed to be reestablished. Ideally this would be accomplished in a subtle non-confrontational way.

With Eames though, he doubted it.

He'd tried to accommodate her, he had. She was the one who'd wanted them to be closer. So he had tried, for her. That was all. It just hadn't worked. No fault to be lain anywhere. Just simple failure on this particular front.

_Right?_

He closed his eyes for a moment then. He was tired.

Unbidden images and scents washed over him. And warmed him through then. Her smooth white body in his dream. The peaceful feeling of seeing her standing safe in the sun. The horror of her still, bloodied body in the ambulance. The scent of her sheets, the chocolate on her breath...

Her books. _That she had them_.

He opened his eyes deliberately and stood up.

Forget it, Goren. Stop. Go no further.

He could only imagine the heaviness of her heart at his mother's ranting. Or what was said to her in his few moments away from them.

And there's your ice-cold shower, man: Pity.

So, the new mantra: Your partnership with this woman is remarkable. It must be preserved at all cost. The work is the thing.

He looked up as movement through the window caught his eye then.

The weather was getting gray out again, he registered in the back of his mind.

A uniformed attendant opened the lobby door, and with the icy winter wind, in came Marjorie Shendrick.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

**H**e assessed her as they rode the elevator together.

Early sixties, elegantly styled white hair, a cashmere coat (not fur), a Chanel bag. Simple makeup. Tall-ish, and remarkably unbent for her age. Still worked out, no doubt.

From research Eames had pulled off the computer, he knew her to be preeminent among the

wealthy and well-intentioned in the city. She was on several important philanthropic committees. Including the prestigious Opera Gala, which he assumed was how Christine Larkins came to know her.

She was active in her liberal tony synagogue, and the Harvard alums. And did pro-bono work through the Mitzvah Society. Volunteered countless counseling hours to the bereaved after 9/11.

And was purportedly a fine psychiatrist as well.

Through his own contacts, he knew that her financials were impeccable. Her servants and secretary fiercely loyal, and it was rumored that, as she was childless, The Met was counting on a very generous bequest when she departed the earthly world.

"May I get you some fresh coffee, Detective Goren?" she asked as they stepped into her inner office.

"No, thank you," he replied.

She poured herself a cup, as he looked about her finely furnished office. Cool chrome and dark leather predominated. Some very good contemporary prints. The requisite library. Some crystal pieces. A box of tissues on a low table. He wondered if Christine Larkins had shed tears here.

He waited then for her to walk around her desk and sit down before seating himself.

"So, you want to talk about Christine Larkins?" she asked directly, meeting his gaze.

"Yes."

She looked away and out the window to the sweeping Manhattan vista.

"It was terrible what happened. Such a talented young woman. And quite beautiful."

He leaned forward a bit.

"I'd like to ask you..."

Her eyes snapped back to him and her impossibly straight back possibly straightened further.

"I'm afraid you've wasted your time, Detective, as I tried to tell your partner over the phone..."

"I know. Patient Confidentiality."

She smiled elegantly and nodded her head.

"I'm sorry. But that is iron clad. Even in death."

"I understand," he began, and offered up one of his own smiles, "And I admire that. In fact, I admire a great deal of the work you've done, Dr. Shendrick."

She raised her brows at that and took a sip of her coffee.

"What do you know of my work, Detective?"

"I know that the Mitzvah Society saw fit to name you Volunteer of Year last year. That's quite a commendation. I know that you've written several articles on the psychological impact of large scale devastating events."

She smiled again, but would not be mis-directed.

"I'm sure you understand my need to protect my patient's privacy, Detective."

"I do," he nodded.

She appraised him briefly before continuing.

"I can assure you that there is nothing I learned in my time with Christine which could explain her murder."

"Really? How do you know?" he asked.

She looked somewhat surprised by this.

"Excuse me?"

"It's just that you seem so certain. There may have been many indicators in what Miss Larkins would say in privacy to her doctor that could be of a great deal of help in solving her murder. Things that might not be obvious to someone unused to criminal activity."

"Such as?" she seemed truly curious.

He noted that she had by-passed the offense in his statement and gone straight for the new information. The mark of the scholar. Knowledge before ego. This was a possible way in.

"Well, as you know, behavior can tell us all sorts of things. I..." he deliberately prevaricated and cast his eyes downward, managing to blush slightly, "I sort of consider myself... an amateur psychologist. Not on your scale, of course! But I've read lots of books. It helps me solve cases."

He watched her relax slightly.

She was amused. Good.

"Really? Well, that is admirable detective. But I should perhaps throw out that old caveat—about a little knowledge..."

"Being a dangerous thing?" he finished for her with a smile.

"Well, frankly, yes," she replied and sipped her coffee again.

"You see I carefully go through the victim's life, her home, her books, her clothes. I try to get into her head..." he said with enthusiasm.

"And this works for you?"

"Oh?" he asked with a slightly forlorn note, "You don't think it could?"

"I find it highly unlikely," she allowed.

"Yeah, I can see why you'd be doubtful. You having gone to Harvard and all."

She smiled indulgently, "Are these the sorts of techniques you use on 'perps', as I believe you call them?"

He grinned, "Ah, you caught me," he waved a finger at her, "I knew you would!"

She smiled back.

"As entertaining as this is, Detective..."

"How about I share some of my ideas with you, Doctor? You don't have to confirm or deny anything. I have developed some thoughts about Miss Larkins, that I'd..."

"Detective..." she was shaking her head.

"How about this: I just... talk. Just bounce some ideas out there. You don't have to say anything. If I am off base, just remark on the weather. The weather, that's all. And this will be off the record, Dr. Shendrick. Completely for my own background information..." he smiled his best boyish smile.

She frowned.

"It's highly unorthodox..."

"Ah, come on doctor, give me a chance," he openly wheedled. "This way you preserve your integrity and maybe really help out at the same. I know that helping out is one of your prime motivators."

She studied his pleading look and acquiesced.

"The weather?"

"Only if I'm off track."

She picked up her mug and leaned back into her chair, preparing to listen.

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**A**lex stepped out of interrogation and into observation. _Damn, damn, damn..._ she intoned with the three steps it took to get from one door to the other.

"He's a stone. And lawyered up. There's nothing you can do," comforted Deakins as she met him before the one-way glass.

"This guy..." she shook her head and looked again at Kol Arano he leaned in to listen to his lawyer, "There's more than meets the eye.

"The fact that he got that guy here in less than an hour speaks volumes."

Eames eyed the Armani-suited lawyer, "Yeah, but not the story."

"Well, let them stew for awhile. We've got him on assaulting an officer."

She nodded wearily and sighed.

"Alex, you okay?" he asked.

"Fine," she snapped. "I'm going to go do a little more research."

She turned on her heel, her mind already with her laptop.

Deakins watched thoughtfully as she went, then headed to his own office.

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"**C**hristine Larkins was depressed," he began...

"...But functioning. In all likelihood this was precipitated by her mother's death. She found herself alone in the world. And though she hadn't lived near her mother for sometime, she had been carefully leading the life her parents had set out for her. The promising career, the luxury, the touring. During her autumn tour through Europe and Middle East, she began to think about her father. I'm not sure why. Perhaps it was being in part of the world that he felt passionate about. Perhaps it was a natural progression from her mother's death.

Something... happened to her during this tour. Whatever it was deepened her sorrow, made her rethink her life's plan----something she'd never considered in a critical way before. She got her navel pierced. She came home and gave away her clothes, and her money. Though we're not exactly sure where that went. She also went to the library and ferociously studied her father's writings."

He paused here, allowing the silence to fill with an unspoken question.

Dr. Shendrick took a deep, thoughtful drink of her coffee.

Goren nodded and went on.

"She may even have been considering suicide. She'd re-written her will and, from what we can tell, planned to give all away to the various charities her mother supported in Cairo. Mostly for indigent children.

Based on all this, my supposition is that she met someone, or simply heard... possibly extremist views about the nature of US involvement in the Middle East while she was abroad. Which only contributed to her depression and may have, in some way that we've yet to pin down, contributed to her death... Studying her father's work was also an outgrowth of this."

He waited then. Hoping that further information would be forthcoming. But Dr. Shendrick's face was impassive.

"I have appointments waiting, Detective Goren," she told him as she arose from her chair and extended her well-manicured hand, "Good luck with your case."

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"**T**his is Goren," he answered his ringing cell as he walked out of the marble lobby.

"What's your status, Bobby?"

"On my way back in now, Captain."

"Did the renowned Dr. Shendrick offer anything new?"

"Not exactly, but we're on the right track with the victim's profile."

"Well, that's something, anyway. Eames collared Arano this morning."

"What? Really...?"

"Her FBI contact dug up the 'last known' and she got lucky. He's got a pretty expensive suit in there with him now."

He played the ramifications of that over in his mind.

"How ...?"

He could hear the smile in Deakins' voice, "Alex End Ran you, Bobby. She grabbed a couple of uniforms and nailed the guy."

"You said he's still there? What are you holding him on?"

Deakins hesitated slightly, "Assaulting an officer..."

"_Assaulting_..." his breath hitched.

"She's fine, Bobby."

"Yeah, I'm sure that's what she told you."

He snapped the cell shut and stepped off the curb then to flag a cab.

_Snarky Little Witch._

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**S**he'd printed out their pictures.

Known accomplices of Arano, or whatever the hell his name was, and the man himself. There seemed to be no clue as to what his original name might have been.

Three young men with no current addresses, yet were known to have some sort of tenuous link to a terrorist cell in Amsterdam. The connections, the real names, the details were all maddeningly vague. Carmen's clearance not sufficient to get her the full picture.

They'd have to put a call into the FBI through official challenges. _Which is just swell_.

She stared at their faces spread out before her. And sighed again, then winced immediately as her ribs protested the assault of her stretching lungs.

_Fuck_.

Tears burnt at the corners of her eyes as she placed her hand against her side

Taking a surreptitious look over her shoulder, she reached into her side desk drawer for the bottle of ibuprofen.

She held it down low in her lap with her right hand, and releasing her ribs with her left, tried to work the childproof cap.

The effort of this caused her to gasp.

At last she got the lid off and turning the bottle out onto the table let out a, _'God dammit'_ when nothing tumbled out.

"There's more in the break room," she heard.

She didn't bother to meet his eyes—_Buzz off, Dancing Bear_—but got up gingerly and followed the scent of burnt coffee to the break room.

He was right behind her.

She opened the cabinet above the sink and closed her eyes briefly in frustration.

"Well, Murphy's laughing at me today," she said aloud.

She made one futile and pain-ridden attempt to reach the bottle on the top shelf, but stopped when she felt his hand rest on her lower back. She lowered her arm as his reached past and grabbed the bottle.

She briefly longed to lean back in to the warm hand spread across her pelvis. To just feel its warmth, to take comfort in the contact.

But stepped away instead.

She held out her hand for the bottle, "Thanks," she said, meeting his eye.

He opened the bottle for her and shook out two tablets into her palm, then turned to fill a paper cup of water.

He watched through hooded eyes as she swallowed them down, not failing to notice the slight flinch the effort caused.

She looked back up at him crankily, "_What!_"

He looked about to ensure their privacy.

"I want you to show me your ribs, Eames," he stated softly.

"Excuse me, but I don' think so," she told him back.

He leaned over her pointedly.

"You will, or I'm going in to tell Deakins just how hurt you are. You'll be back home with your books before you can say Edna Saint Vincent Millay."

"Go to hell."

"Not until I see your ribs."

She looked at him a moment, then smiled softly.

"You're not going to tell Deakins."

"Try me."

"You're not going to tell Deakins because I have stood by you, Goren, without fail. I've held my tongue when you defended a lobotomizer. I've run interference so you can sniff dead bodies in peace. I've backed up your crazy ass for four years now. You are not telling Deakins a thing, without my permission. And you know it."

She finished this last with a sort of triumph in her voice.

He looked down at her, knowing she was right, and took a deep breath. He was close enough to her that the hint of citrus perfume she always wore penetrated him.

"Go back to licking your own wounds, Goren," she snapped.

She turned to move away, but he took her upper right arm in one hand, and grabbed the first aid kit from off a nearby shelf with the other.

There was no breaking the grip he had on her. Not without serious self-injury and very public scuffling anyway.

"Let me go, Bobby," she growled through clenched teeth.

But he was walking her to the small room behind the kitchen.

Once within, he turned and locked the door behind him.

Turning back to an indignant Alex, he placed the first aid kit on the table next to her.

"Take off your sweater," he told her as he opened up the kit.

"What?" she almost laughed. "I don't think so."

He looked at her.

"Get up on this table and take off your sweater, Eames. Or _I will _go to Deakins. To hell with my crazy ass."

"I am not..."

His eyes softened.

"I need to see how badly you're hurt and then you can finish the day. If you promise to go in for an x-ray tonight, that is."

"I don't see how..."

"Those are the terms, Eames," he told her.

She looked at him, saw his resolve, and climbed up on the table, "Arrogant side-of-beef," she groused.

He didn't let himself smile.

He kept his eyes on the tape and Aspercreme as he sensed her movements next to him. She was struggling a bit.

"Bobby..."

He looked up at the slight tremor in her voice.

"What is it?" he asked gently.

"I uh..." she looked away ruefully. "I can't get my sweater off. The pain...lifting my arm is..."

He nodded and set the medical supplies down.

He reached for the sleeve of her royal blue cashmere and helped her slip her right arm out. Then gently eased its high neck over her head, before, finally, bringing the last sleeve down over her left arm.

He turned away then, shook out the sweater, noting how small it seemed, before laying it over a nearby chair.

He turned back to look at her. Her chin was up and her eyes met his. The trust between them remained unbroken, he was relieved to see.

She was waiting for him he realized then.

His eyes moved down the throat of his fantasies, past the creamy breasts clad in navy lace, and to her left side.

"_Oh, Alex_..." he whispered with such tenderness then that gooseflesh rose over her exposed skin.

She swallowed. "That bad?" she asked.

The bruising had spread, far exceeding where she'd taped over that morning. And where there should be lighter and more yellow marks in the week since the accident, there were now black and angry deep bruises again.

"Please let me take you to the hospital."

"No, not yet."

He nodded and sighed, then pulled off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves

He began then to peel away the curling tape off her skin.

She hissed through her teeth at his ministrations.

"We still need talk to Drew. He's on the way in now. The car rental place faxed over his mileage..."

"Let me guess, a middle of the night scenic drive?"

She let out a shaky laugh, "Looks like it."

They were silent then, she gasping as he continued to slowly peel away the tape.

By the time her side was bare, she was feeling slightly dizzy from the exertion.

He looked up at her closed eyes in concern.

"I'm sorry, Alex. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she assured him.

"I'm going to wash my hands and put some cream on it, then tape it up again."

She only nodded, her face pale, her eyes still closed.

He warmed his hands under the water, and the cream between his fingers before beginning the application process.

At the first touch of his fingertips at her side, she leaned her forehead forward to rest on his shoulder and moaned softly.

He lightly slid the topical pain medicine over her delicate skin. Circling and skating his fingers. After a moment, he felt her body begin to relax.

"Bobby... yesterday..."

"Shhh," he told her as he stroked her skin.

"But, I don't want you to think..."

_God she was tired_.

"I don't," he told her softly.

She sighed and nodded slightly.

Another moment of his fingers against her, the ibuprofen and cream beginning to take effect...

"I can't remember the last time a man touched me..." she mumbled into his shoulder then.

"Yeah, well, they don't know what they're missing," he replied with a small smile.

"Black and blue bruises?"

"Among other things."


	7. Seven

**T**hey'd been working late in the conference room at the beginning of her seventh month.

Papers and files spread out on the table, and empty cups—coffee for him, herbal tea for her---  
strewn about.

Suddenly she sat upright, pressing her hand to abdomen.

"Oh!"

He looked up at her startled face.

"Eames? You okay?"

She didn't answer, her eyes wide and staring.

"Eames?"

She glanced over at the question on his face.

"What?"

"Are you all right?"

"I was kicked. Hard."

He furrowed his brows and focused on the hand pressed against the swell of her stomach.

"That's a good thing though, right? Means he... or she, is healthy?"

She looked down as well, feeling the movement within.

"It's a he," she told him quietly.

He raised his brows, "I thought they didn't want to know the sex."

She met his eyes, "They don't."

He nodded.

"What's the boy name they've picked out?"

She wrinkled her nose, "Brian."

"That seems okay."

"It wouldn't if you'd known my Uncle Brian."

"Ah. Sorry."

"What's in a name, though? Right?" she smiled bravely.

"Right."

"I think I need to stand up and walk a bit."

"Oh... right," he awkwardly stood himself, not sure why, but it seemed the right thing to do. "Maybe you should head home and rest?"

"No, I'll be fine. I'll just go get some more tea. It's not very comfortable to sit for too long is all. Do you want more coffee?" She stood with some effort.

He nodded and began sorting papers.

"Decaf., please," he said, noting the hour.

"Coming right...----Oh!" she exclaimed again, and sat down hard.

His head snapped up.

"Okay?"

"Yeah..."

He watched her catch her breath for a moment.

"Eames... could I...?"

She looked up, "What?"

"Nothing."

"You want to feel him kick? Is that it?"

"Not if it would make you uncomfortable."

"Come here," she instructed.

He walked around the table curiously and crouched before her.

"Here," she said, taking his hand and placing it where her own had been.

She slipped hers over his then and held him there.

"Now, wait a minute," she instructed, looking into his face.

They waited a quiet moment together. She, watching his face in some amusement. He, focusing on the life beneath his fingers, cradled within her warm, taut stomach.

"Whoa!" his eyes popped suddenly.

She laughed as he removed his hand to help her stand.

"Pretty amazing, huh?" she asked, her smile uncharacteristically bright.

As he watched her walk to the break room then, he had to silently agree.

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"**E**ames..."

"Hmm?"

"You have to lift your head off my shoulder so I can tape your ribs now."

"No."

He chuckled, allowing himself to feel that staying this way mightn't be so bad.

"You may have coffee afterwards," he whispered in her ear.

"No."

"I'll buy the margaritas next time we go to Sal's," he wheedled then.

She lifted her head.

"Good girl. You do like to make those pennies squeak don't you, Eames?" he laughed.

"You calling me cheap, Goren?" she cocked her brow.

"Just an observation, that's all."

"Yeah? Well, shut up, or I might have to make some _observations_ of my own."

He looked at her with a little challenge then, "_Yeah?_" he mocked her, "Well, _those_ I might like to hear."

"Be careful what you wish for," she warned.

He smiled and turned to reach for the surgical tape then, and began tearing strips and applying them to the large piece of gauze covering the bruises. He worked silently, trying not to press too hard but, at the same time, to tape tightly enough so that there'd be as little movement of the ribs as possible.

She bit her lip, to avoid making noise.

"There," he said at last, looking up at her, as he wiped his hands on a paper towel.

"Hospital later. We have a deal," he reminded her.

She nodded and began to reach for her sweater.

"Let me," he said, reaching for her, "or we're right back where we started."

She sighed her frustration, but let him do it.

He reversed his earlier process then and gently helped her ease the sweater back on.

She slid off the table and smoothed her hair before looking at him again.

"Thanks, Sir Galahad," she smirked.

"Any time," he turned to pick up the first aid kit. "Good collar on Arano..." he told her as they walked to the door.

She looked back over her shoulder at him, "But, you think I should have waited for you?"

"Would I have liked to've been there?" he asked with a shrug, "Sure. But you know how to take care of yourself. You didn't need me."

She decided to let that pass.

"What did Shendrick say?"

"Our profile's confirmed, that's about it," he told her, as he put the first aid kit away.

She nodded and looked at him shrewdly. Time to put the cards on the table.

"But we're not going to do it this way again, are we, Bobby?" she asked pointedly.

He returned her look, "Partners should work together," he admitted.

She turned to the coffee machine then, it was all the apology she needed.

"I need some good coffee, in an IV, _Stat! _Preferably with a shot of Old Turkey in it. But, I'll settle for this sludge. How about you?"

"Sounds good," he answered, a sort of relief settling within.

She handed his over and took up her own as they headed back to their desks.

"Goren, Eames," they heard Deakins call, as he crossed to meet them. "I've got David Drew in number one. And Arano, and the suit still waiting in number two. How do you want to proceed?"

"Well, I couldn't get the time of day from Arano," began Alex...

"Eames?" asked Goren from where he stood at her desk.

She turned to look at him.

"Are these Arano and his associates?" he asked, holding up the photos of the three men she'd printed out earlier.

"Yeah, Carmen found them this morning and sent them over... Bobby?" she queried in concern.

But Goren had stalked off to interrogation two, his jaw set.

With a quick glance at Deakins, she followed.

They slipped into observation just in time to see Goren standing opposite Arano and his lawyer seated at the table.

He was leaning toward them, his hands flat on the table before him.

"What is he doing?" asked Deakins.

"Could be anything," Eames stated the obvious.

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**T**here had been the humiliations as a boy, of course.

Wallace had made those public enough in his current environment. That was the horror, the constant unease, of being the child of a schizophrenic mother.

What no one ever talked about was the fierce protectiveness a child could feel about even such a mother as his. And love. He'd constantly feared for her safety. That she'd hurt herself in the midst of an hallucination.

She'd never physically hurt him, or his brother. Though he did have a dim memory of her hurling the well-thumbed unabridged Webster's at his father when he'd come home drunk one night.

He'd stayed away for two weeks after that.

No, his childhood home hadn't been one of physical violence. His mother's verbal acuity alone, the manipulations of logic, the strategy he had to create to think ahead of her. These had been the abuse.

But, still, he'd go to school afraid she'd leave the stove on. Or, worse, someone would mug her or take advantage of her on her daily trips to the vegetable market and library.

Once some taunting kids had pushed her over on the street when she'd tried to warn them about crows roosting on a nearby fence.

He'd been about thirteen.

She'd babbled Poe at them, until they'd rushed her and run away.

He'd found her scraped and bewildered hours later.

He looked down at Arano then. Dark hair, dark eyes. The type many women would find romantic, he supposed. Not tall, though, he assessed, with vitriol.

No, not tall at all.

"I understand you wouldn't answer my partner's questions," he threw out.

Arano shrugged and looked away.

Expensive suit was happy to talk though.

"I'm Albert Henry, Mr. Arano's lawyer. He's under no obligation to answer your partner's questions, or yours, Detective...?"

"Goren."

"Can you please explain what the delay has been in processing my client, Detective Goren?"

"Back-up downstairs," lied Bobby.

He pulled a chair out then and sat down, leaning back casually, studying Arano.

"Assaulting an officer, huh?" he shook his head and made a tsking noise with his tongue. "That why you didn't want to answer any of Detective Eames' questions, Mr. Arano? Afraid she might hurt you?"

Arano leaned in to him and snarled, "I am not afraid of any woman!"

"_Oh? _Aren't you? I understand she caught you, no problem. Probably could have kicked your ass if she'd had the chance too. She's pretty tough."

Arano snorted.

"The only reason you were able to slam her against the wall at all, was because you had the element of surprise, and you know it. But you know all about the element of surprise, don't you Mr. Arano? That's your usual M.O. when attacking women."

"My client has nothing to say."

"Christine Larkins didn't expect you to shoot her. That must have been quite a surprise indeed. But that's the only way you can get them," he leaned in pointedly, "Not man enough to do it any other way, are you?"

"I must protest, Detective Goren..."

"I did not kill Christine! She was a righteous woman. I would never have hurt her!" yelled Arano then.

"My partner is a righteous woman. And the most honorable person I've ever known..."

Arano stood up then.

"A selfish, spoiled _American_ woman!" he shouted in disgust. "Some man _you_ are! Working with a woman! Letting her push you around. You even let her do the driving—What kind of man does that make _you!" _he spat.

Bobby appraised him.

"How did you know that Detective Eames does the driving, Mr. Arano?" he asked with quiet steel in his voice.

"Sit down and shut up," commanded Albert Henry then.

Arano complied.

The lawyer looked at Bobby then, "None of this is going to..."

Bobby stood up himself, still addressing Arano.

"Did you perhaps know that Eames drives because you happened to see us driving together one night last week?"

"No," Arano told him.

"Oh yeah, you saw us all right," Bobby felt a coiling within, "Up close and personal. Right before you slammed that rental right into us, then took off and left us—Left. _Her_. For. Dead!"

Bobby slammed his hand on the table before Arano then and was gratified when he flinched.

"Felony hit and run, Mr. Arano. And I'm guessing that if we dig a little into the accident of the doorman you replaced, we might find another of your hit and run victims. I saw you that night, Mr. Righteous, I saw you the night you tried to kill us."

Albert Henry stood up then, "That's enough, Detective. If you have another charge to file against my client, then do so. But that's it for interrogation."

"That how you get off, huh, Arano?" jeered Bobby as he paced before them now. "Hurting innocents and running away? First the doorman, and then Christine Larkins—What? Did you have some sort of thing for her? Did she _rebuff_ you! I can certainly understand why, a coward like you. It doesn't matter, pal. Not at all. Because you made the great big mistake of hurting my partner along the way..." Bobby menaced, in Arano's face now.

"I wouldn't dirty myself to touch a hair on that filthy whore's head!" screamed Arano, as he jumped to his feet.

Bobby lunged for him then.

The table, the chairs, the lawyer all flew to the wayside, as he slammed Arano repeatedly against the wall.

All too soon the uniforms, Deakins, and Alex were in the room separating them.

Alex placed her hands on Bobby's chest and pushed, "Cool off, Goren!"

"Listen to your bitch, Goren!" called Arano from the doorway as the uniforms dragged him off.

"You two, in the conference room now!" barked Deakins, on his way out the door.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

**T**here had been good times, sweet times, too.

Though he was pretty sure he was the only one who remembered them. The solitary witness to his mother's true heart.

His father had left, unable to cope. His brother Rick so full of anger and denial, he couldn't get away fast enough once he'd achieved majority. And poor Meg. Her memories, and illusions, and fears so knitted and knotted into one another, that no simple fond story, no photograph, or scent could ever jolt her into a rightful remembrance.

But he remembered.

Sometimes months at a time would go by, when he'd come home to supper cooking and clean clothes that he hadn't washed and folded himself. There had been teacher's conferences she showed up for. And how she made the teacher laugh with her sparkling wit. And afterwards, when she told him he'd made her proud.

Even the odd birthday present.

It hadn't all been 'Man in the Moon Marigolds'.

He looked up at her. She was still pacing before him as he sat at the table in the conference room.

They hadn't exchanged a word.

And Deakins would be in any minute.

Finally she stopped and looked at him.

"What am I going to do?" she asked.

He knew she meant, 'What am I going to do with your crazy ass _again_, Goren?'

He looked back at her. They both knew that nothing could be said on this.

She sighed and pulled out the chair across from him and sat down, pursing her lips as the action jarred her side.

He watched her. She was nothing like any other woman in his life had been. Not tall, or brunette, or worldly. But they had been together, steady and sure, longer than any other relationship he'd had.

She looked up at him.

"Bobby," she finally said, "I would do anything for you."

That was it. No, 'but' with a tagged-on snark at the end. Only a sincere offer. Complete and unconditional.

As only Alex Eames could be.

And for the second time in four years, Bobby found himself rendered speechless by both her simplicity and depth.

And the generosity of her heart.


	8. Eight

Deakins stepped in.

Bobby opened his mouth to speak.

But the Captain held up his hand to stop him.

"There is nothing. No justification, Goren. I could bust your ass down to beat cop right now, I truly could. And there's plenty who'd get in line behind me to cheer that on. You've done crazy things before, but not stupid. You just slammed a guy against a wall _while his lawyer was in the room_..." Deakins shook his head in disbelief, "You think even _you_ can slick out of this, Goren?"

"Captain..." began Alex. She stood to cross to him.

"Save it, Alex. Not even you can fix this for him," he looked back to where Bobby sat at the table, his eyes downcast. "Bobby, I wanted to slam him myself for what he said about her. But we don't do it that way. Alex is not gonna thank you when she's lost her partner."

Bobby nodded.

"But, we've got bigger fish to fry right now. Whoppers, in fact."

They looked up at him in interest.

"Wouldn't be surprised if it just makes this shit slide right off your teflon shield again, Bobby. More's the pity."

"I'll bite," said Alex curiously, "What's going on?"

"I've got FBI in the office with Carver now. Top level. They've got a serious interest in this Arano guy, or whatever his name is, and they want him."

Bobby stood up, "He's ours."

"You got any proof he did the Larkins murder, Mr. Genius?" asked the Captain, "Or were you planning on slamming a confession out of him?"

Bobby and Alex looked at one another.

Deakins shook his head.

"That's what I thought. Carver's tap dancing to get us more time, but it's not looking good. Now, what about Drew?"

"He's still a real possibility," Bobby told him.

"What have they got on Arano that they need him now?" asked Alex.

"Oh, my lowly security clearance doesn't allow a mere flatfoot such as myself to know something _like that_. I'm just supposed to turn him over and kiss their assess for the trouble," bit Deakins.

"Look, we need to have a real go at Drew," said Bobby turning to Deakins then. "Arano worked hard to get himself close to Larkins, and he tried to run Eames and I off the case, literally. But Drew's still got a little unexplained trip on his side of the tally sheet."

"What's your plan then, Bobby?" Deakins.asked.

"Well, he loved her, but feared the real possibility of losing her..." mused Goren.

"You think he'd kill her rather than lose her? I don't see it," countered Deakins.

"It's possible."

"Don't buy it. Doesn't seem the type," Deakins shook his head.

Alex watched this tug of war, her irritation growing.

"Gentlemen!" she barked.

They looked over at her in surprise.

"You boys need a couple of beers or something while you're chatting?" she smiled sweetly.

Bobby shifted uncomfortably.

Alex narrowed her eyes. "I'm going in to talk to Drew," she announced.

Deakins and Goren looked at one another.

"Am I or am I not, technically, the lead Detective?" she asked them mildly.

Bobby blinked, she'd never pulled her slightly higher rank on him before.

"Of course," he acquiesced.

"So, I've made a decision. Drew likes me. He thinks I'm _kind_," she looked pointedly at Bobby then, "And _you_ do not need any more trouble today, Big Guy. So I'm going in."

Deakins looked at Bobby, "As usual, she's right."

Bobby nodded and walked over to her, leaning in with his arms crossed.

"So... What are you thinking?" he asked her.

She looked up at him, "As I see it, we need to give this guy what he needs..." she began.

Seeing that they were on track, Deakins slipped out of the room and back to his office.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

She hadn't been there when Andy had been shot.

Though they were on the same squad, the 'no fraternization' policy kept them from being partners. Truth was, professional partnership wouldn't have worked for them anyway, and they both knew it.

Which was why she found herself trolling a corner in fishnets and fake leather when the call had come through.

Tim Gorsky, her then partner, buzzed her earpiece, "Um, _Al_... they're calling us back to the station."

She lifted her wrist and spoke into the polyester fur cuff, "What? Why? This guy is close."

"They want us back _now_, Al," he repeated.

And that's when her spine iced over.

She began striding to the undercover van up the block. She lifted her wrist again, "What aren't you telling me, Gorsky?"

He had to tell her.

Then and there. Officially, he wasn't supposed to. He was supposed to take her back to the station and let the Captain do it. But Andy was a friend of his too, and he didn't know how much time he had left.

He also had no desire to be spiked by the red Frederick's of Hollywood heels Alex was sporting.

They popped the cherry onto the lid of the van and peeled out for Belleview.

But she never saw her husband conscious again.

She sat by his bed, in the fake leather and red heels, for three days and silently watched as he slipped away...

She reached into her purse for a brush to smooth her hair then, tweaking here and there for that 'natural' look. Compact next. A little finely pressed powder to reduce the shine. A mere breath of Citrus at her wrists. And lipstick. She dug through her bag, seeking the darker red. Then gloss on top.

Finally, a little cream to smooth on her hands.

She took a rueful look in the mirror.

Not much she could do about the circles under her eyes, but she'd pass.

She sailed back out into the bullpen, dropped her bag at her desk, grabbed a file, and headed to interrogation one...

She and Andy had met at The Academy. He'd been such a boy. Loud, popular, quick. Wickedly sexy. When they finally found their way to one another, it had been hormonal and consuming. After graduation, her mother planned an awful church wedding with a veil and a mass. Not what she wanted, but what everyone else wanted. So she let it happen. Didn't matter as long as she and Andy could be together.

They talked and planned late at night as all such couples must do, she imagined. The house, the children, the future.

Her books remained boxed up in her parent's basement. But she was happy.

It wasn't until much later that she realized how unknown she had been to herself during this time. How it took grief, deep and abiding, for her to really learn what she gave a true shit about. It had come far too late, this realization, she knew. And she must live with the pain, the waste, of life and time, forever.

But she'd be eternally grateful to Andy for helping her find her true way.

One week after his death, and then after the funeral---as public and Irish as her wedding, and just as unwanted, and despite all protest, she went back to work.

Six months later she put in for a transfer to Homicide, found a new apartment, and called up Gareth to haul her books over and build her some shelves.

It was then she started reading again...

"Hello, Mr. Drew," she smiled as she stepped into the room. "I hope you remember me?"

He stood up and waited for her to sit.

"Of course," he smiled. She'd forgotten how blue his eyes were. "Detective Eames."

She smiled at him again, "That's right. But, call me Alex, please."

"If you'll call me David."

Bobby rolled his eyes where he stood with Deakins, Carver, and the FBI agents on the other side of the mirror watching intently.

She had changed out of the long sleeved blue and into the sleeveless brown, he noted. Her pale, lithe, bare arms draped on the table made an especially appealing picture. He hoped it hadn't hurt her too much to make the change.

She looked up at Drew then, wide-eyed and unblinking, "I am _so_ sorry we kept you waiting, _David_. We've had a bit of drama in here today."

He looked concerned, "I did hear a lot of noise before."

She nodded.

"We found Arano, the missing doorman. He got a little over excited."

Drew's eyes widened at that.

"What did he say?"

Alex glanced at the door and leaned in to him confidentially, "I'm really not supposed to discuss evidence with you, David. But, between you and I, he does remain a person of interest."

"I see."

She opened the file before her then and looked him in the eye.

"Unfortunately, so do you."

"_Me?_" Drew looked sincerely floored. "I... I loved Christine. I could never harm her."

Alex nodded and sighed.

"David, I want to believe you, I really do," she looked at him and bit her lip slightly. "I just... _feel_ that you couldn't have done it. Miss Larkins was lucky to have you care about her so much. That's just," she blushed and looked down, "my, uh, personal opinion, mind you."

Drew leaned forward to her, "Thank you, Alex. That... that means a lot to me."

She looked up again.

"It's just that we have recently discovered that on your trip to Boston the night of the murder, you rented a car, David."

Drew swallowed, "That's not an unusual thing to do on a business trip."

"No, it isn't. You're right. But you covered an awful lot of miles for one night away. What did you do, David, drive laps around the city?"

Goren chuckled softly as Deakins grinned by his side.

Drew looked away.

"I have the information from the Car Rental Agency right here, David."

She lifted a sheet from the open file before her and laid it down so that he might read it.

"You could have made the trip back to New York to do it, David. To kill Christine. It's right there in black and white."

"But, I didn't," he protested. "I never could."

"Then explain this to me, David, please. I need to understand. Did you come back to see her on a whim?"

"No." His eyes were downcast now, his hands clasped tightly before him.

"Did she break up with you before you left?"

He looked up at her, his pain open, "No!"

"Then _what_, David?" she asked gently. "Clearly you were afraid you were going to lose her. Did you come back to have it out with her and get carried away? Lose your temper? The gun go off before you realized?"

"_No!_ My God, no!" he got to his feet and walked to the mirror, his head lowered, and began to sob softly.

Alex stepped up behind him. Had there been no glass between them, Goren, standing opposite, could have reached past Drew and touched her.

"David, listen to me," she instructed quietly, "_Please._"

He turned and faced her.

Goren watched as she sighed and leaned slightly on the table behind her. He knew her ribs were hurting her right now.

"I'm going to tell you a little story, David. Just some notions I have of things. And I want you to listen and then we can talk some more afterwards, okay?"

He nodded, and swiped at his eyes.

Alex took a deep breath and studied the man before her.

And suddenly Goren knew that this was not going to play out in the way they'd discussed. Something else was going to happen here. He felt it. His stomach knotted as he leaned closer, his forehead nearly contacting the glass, as he waited for Alex to cast her spell.

"_I understand you_, David, more than you might think," she began.

Goren heard no judgment in her voice, but a sort of weariness.

"I know what it is to be the one... Well, the one _in the shadow _for lack of a better phrase. That's what you were, right? In Christine's shadow?"

Drew could only stare at her, completely caught in her words.

"Christine was very beautiful and brilliant. So incredibly talented. It must have just been a joy to be behind her on that stage every night."

Drew nodded, "_It was_," he whispered.

"I know how that feels, David. I do."

Bobby brought his clenched fist to his mouth.

"And you were happy there behind her. You are a very good musician in your own right but playing for her, accompanying her, made you even better."

Eames swiped her hair from her eyes and looked away a moment.

Bobby held his breath.

She looked back then.

"Together you were extraordinary. So, of course, you must love her too."

The sound of her voice, bitter and tender at once, resonated in Goren's chest.

Deakins became still by his side.

He felt Carver steal a look at him.

"I did. _I do_ love her," responded Drew.

Alex nodded.

"But being a great artist, she took advantage of you in her way, of your love and music. Not in a selfish way perhaps, but simply by nature of who she was. She'd been born and bred to be a musician—a great star. Her life from birth prepared her for that."

"She was on her way to being the finest."

Alex nodded again, "All you wanted was her partnership, really. In every sense. It fulfilled you, creating music together, being with her. Am I right, David?"

He nodded mutely.

"And sometimes, I'm sure, she even realized her success was, in part, due to you. Because of the support you quietly gave her. She may even have thanked you. After all, you understood her as no one else did. You fine-tuned your music to showcase her. You empowered her. So, she loved you back. For awhile, anyway. But you've never really known if it _was _love, or just the gratitude of good-hearted young woman, have you, David?"

Drew sobbed audibly.

Alex moved forward to him and put her hands on his shoulders.

Bobby stepped back slightly from the window, as she moved in to Drew, the power of her story too much, too close.

"David, _look at me,_" commanded Alex gently. "You will always be the better for the gift you gave her, for that love. And though it will never be publicly lauded, or acknowledged even, I am standing here today to tell you, to tell whomever you would like me to say it to; _Christine Larkins was a Great Artist because David Drew had the strength and talent, and most importantly, love, to hold her up to be so._"

Drew collapsed his head onto her shoulder then and cried out his pain.

And Bobby Goren, on the other side of the mirror, let his breath go.

"_There, there_," she murmured, stroking his hair. "_There, there_. David, you know you have to tell me now. You have to tell me what happened that night. When you came back to New York."

He nodded into her shoulder, sobbing even harder.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

She'd been a better shot than Andy. Her test scores higher. Her mind quicker. She couldn't match him push-up for push-up, but she was more than fairly rated for her sex and weight class.

But he had been promoted first.

Their friends and family had thrown a helluva a party on the beach out on Long Island. Beer in kegs, fresh clams, music and dancing. The works. And she'd been happy for him. For them. He drunkenly promised to buy her all sorts of extravagances with his raise, and she'd just rolled her eyes at him and laughed. He, in his happiness and youth, bronzed and muscled, with the world ahead of him, was beautiful to her. Glorious even. And that filled her up in such a way as to make everything else seem distant and fuzzy.

That's what love's about, right?...

David Drew had gone through his handkerchief, and was well into the box of tissues she'd slid over, and the glass of water she'd poured.

"I thought she was cheating. With that doorman," he began. "It took me forever to see what was going on, but when he started working at her building and I saw her smile at him one day, I just knew."

"What did you do?" she asked.

"I finally asked her about it," he admitted. "At first she didn't say anything. And then she said it wasn't what I thought it was."

"You wanted to believe her?"

"I sure as hell did," he laughed ruefully. "She'd been so different since her trip."

Alex nodded.

"So you drove back from Boston to check on her."

He nodded, "I just had this feeling, you know. She wasn't at all sorry to see me leave. Just sort of distracted. So, as soon as I landed and checked in, I got in the car and drove down."

Drew paused here, the memories clearly washing over him.

"Did you catch them together, David?" she asked gently.

He looked at her, "I swear to God, Alex, I didn't even go into the building."

She blinked at this.

"I know you don't believe me. But I didn't. I parked across the street in front of the ATM there and just watched the building for awhile. I felt so stupid. Like when I followed her to the library. And then that Arano guy walks up. The other doorman wasn't there. I don't know where he went, but Arano sailed right in."

"What time was this?"

"I don't know. Maybe three or four in the morning."

"What happened next?"

"I looked up at Christine's apartment and I saw her let him in through the front door. There's a window in the hall there."

"And then?"

"And then twenty minutes later he comes back down with some mailing tube or something, it was red, and then leaves. I felt so stupid. I didn't know what to think. Was he just running an errand for her? But what sort of errand would it be at that hour? Were they having an affair, or weren't they? I didn't know. I felt like I was going crazy."

But Alex was sitting up straight, trying to add it all up. And it wasn't coming out the way it should. The way they'd expected. She flicked her eyes to the mirror, wishing she could see Bobby.

"What did you do then, David?"

He laughed hollowly, "I drove back to Boston, checked out the piano like I was supposed to, and then caught the plane home. That's it. I swear. I was at home when the police called to tell me that they'd... found her body."

"Okay, David. I'm going to step out for a minute. But I need you to stay around awhile longer."

He nodded morosely.

She gathered up her file and walked to the door, then stopped and turned to him.

"Why didn't you tell us any of this before?"

He shrugged, "I didn't feel I had anything to tell. I didn't want the world to think Christine had been sleeping with her doorman."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

She stepped into observation.

"I've got Lampley on the way to the bank to check out any video. If Drew was parked in front of that ATM, there might be tape of him," said Deakins.

Alex nodded thoughtfully, "Or even of Arano leaving the building. If we're lucky."

"If this story checks out, we've got Arano there at the time of the murder, and I can charge him," said Carver happily.

One of the FBI agents turned to Carver then, "As I explained before, Mr. Carver. We need to take Arano into custody for our own investigation."

"Which you have told me nothing about, Agent Blakeley. Why should I let the murderer of a well-known and beloved young opera singer go with you? I've had the Mayor on my ass for days over this."

The agents eyed one another.

"We could perhaps give you some information that might speed things along for you, Mr. Carver. But we would expect consideration from you in return."

"I'm making no promises, but we're listening."

The taller of the two agents opened his briefcase and handed over a stack of photographs for them to thumb through.

"Christine Larkins was targeted by the man you know as Kol Arano when she was in Belgium. We still don't know why. But because of certain other information we have, this caused us great concern."

They all looked over the photos of Arano and Christine Larkins together in a public park, at a café, walking by a waterway. They were laughing and looked like a happy young couple.

Goren took a couple of the photos and perused them, "They began an affair?"

"Yes," confirmed the taller agent. "He seems to have followed her here. We've been tracking him and two of his accomplices in another matter. We're not sure yet what he wanted Christine for."

"I see," said Carver, returning the photos to the agents. "But this only makes my case stronger. If she had a prior connection to the suspect..."

"Look, Carver, this goes up to the highest levels. We need this guy."

"Well, then, it looks like the highest levels are going to have to fight this one out, because I'm not releasing Mr. Arano based on what you've told me."

"Okay, Carver, if that's how you want to play it," the agent snapped his briefcase shut.

"I'm not letting a murderer go," said Carver simply.

They all watched then as the agents left.

"We still don't have a motive for Arano," said Bobby softly then.

Alex looked over at him.

"You don't think he did it?" she asked.

"I'm just saying we don't have a motive."

"We have enough to hold him," snapped Carver as he left the room, with Deakins trailing behind.

Bobby looked over at Alex then.

She had turned to the mirror and was watching David Drew sitting in his misery on the other side.

"He really loved her," she said softly.

Bobby moved to her side and looked down at her.

"Eames..."

Something in the sound of his voice made her look up at him.

The exhaustion in her face hurt him.

"What you said in there, Alex..."

She waited, her eyes fixed on him.

"I..." he tried. He couldn't form words that meant anything.

"I'm going to go get that poor man some coffee, Bobby," she told him, and turned to go.

He sank into a chair after she left, his mind turning it all over.


	9. Nine

Don't ask, don't tell.

The unofficial yellow underbelly of the no-fraternization policy. And Deakins wasn't going to ask. No way in hell. He was pretty sure nothing was going on between the members of his best team. But he was equally aware, as his dear wife was want to point out, that it could.

Easily.

For crap's sake, he knew that actual wagers had been placed on the matter within certain neanderthal quarters.

From whence Alex spoke her words to David Drew. From what level of consciousness, he couldn't say. That they did come from within her, as opposed to the chameleon-like artifice Bobby could pick up and drop like a pair of old gloves, was also crystal.

He knew it. Carver knew it. And Bobby...

Frankly, he had no clue what Bobby knew.

Goren was a complex man, but his desires were simple. He wanted, he needed, the work. Like air. And Deakins had never seen a being better-tuned for the job. The stories dropped here and there about his life through the years, as well as his own observations, gave him enough to know all this about Robert Goren.

But what Goren might _feel_ about anything was anyone's guess.

The only one who ever had a clue about that was, ironically, Alex. And she'd never betray him by letting on what those mysteries might be.

That they had chemistry was no secret. Intellectual, intuitive, and, yes, even physical. All this was what made them great partners. And as a man from a very happy marriage, Deakins well knew that these were also the necessary components of life-long bonding.

And he'd heard the deep breath Bobby had taken before Eames spoke those words to Drew.

And he'd heard the breath let go after.

He felt pretty certain, in that in-the-gut way, that change had been marked by this simple passage of air. That, within Goren, as this air left him, a dawning had stolen in to fill the vacated space.

And he pitied the guy.

The treasure that was Alexandra Eames weighed against the worth of validation. Of work.

He absolutely pitied the guy.

So, Deakins looked up from his desk then, and watched through the window as the pantomime unfolded.

First Bobby came out of observation at last, distracted and rumpled, mumbling.

"I'm going down to check on Arano," he told him.

Deakins saw the furtive glancing toward interrogation one before he left.

And then finally Alex emerged with Drew.

She smiled and patted his shoulder comfortingly and walked him to the elevator. Upon returning she glanced around the office, looking for Goren.

With a disappointed slump to her shoulders, she came to the office and poked her head in.

"I'm going to take off, if that's okay. I have a check-up thing—since the accident," she told him.

He looked at his watch.

"So late?"

"Problem? I can stay..."

"No, no, go."

She turned to leave, then turned back, "Captain..."

"Yes?"

She sighed and changed her mind, "Nothing."

He watched then as she crossed to her desk, scribbled Goren a note, and collected her things before leaving.

And his heart went out to her too.

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He came to her door late at night, his body restless in that way which means, _'I am struggling.'_

She stood patiently and waited for him in their usual way. The way of a thousand times before. His pacing in her small entryway was farcical. The small space too big for his feelings, his energy.

At last he stopped before her, staring at the floor, his body finally still but his eyes dancing. She did not look down herself. She would only see her own pale feet, the red polished toes peeking out from under the navy silk of her pajama bottoms.

What he saw was anyone's guess. She'd fancied once, after two gin and tonics and some awful rumaki, that it might well be the movement of atoms.

But for now his body was still, eyes moving, brain whirling. He smelled like Bobby at the end of the day; his cologne still lightly clinging, the snow on his shoulders, the wool of his coat.

And she could hear him breathe.

He looked up at her and captured her eyes with his own then.

She thrilled and felt warm and so smiled.

As did he.

He reached his hand out then and picked up hers from her side, stretching her white arm between them.

She felt the tips of her breasts pucker in this simple action, and blushed knowing he could see them rise under her camisole.

He lay her hand flat over his heart and she felt its rhythmic beating.

And his smile grew.

"Eames," he said softly, "I've... I've always wanted to do this..."

He reached out his index finger then and placed it lightly on her shoulder then traced ever so slowly down her bare arm. Outlining its curves, where it was soft, where it dipped into angles, and along its most tender places...

She shivered.

When he reached her hand on his chest, they both laughed a little.

Their heartbeats had synchronized now and accelerated.

"Why didn't you tell me how I felt?" he asked her then.

"I didn't think you'd choose me," she replied.

He nodded and moved closer, lifting her arm around his neck, wrapping his about her waist.

She stretched up on her toes, leaning against him as they took their time, eyes open, and kissed softly.

And then her phone rang.

She frowned. But she's wearing her pajamas. Where's her phone?

And, wait a minute... where's Bobby gone?

_Ah, hell._

She opened her eyes, or tried to. Eighteen hours in the same mascara has roughly the bonding properties of Super Glue.

Yeah, she's still in the Emergency Waiting Room, and, yeah, she's been asleep. She must be tired if she can have a dream like that in public, she decides.

"Hey, honey!..." she hears.

She turns to an elderly woman sitting next to her, and is momentarily puzzled by the bloody towel wrapped around her hand.

"Are you going to answer that?" asks this bloody towel woman in irritation.

She snaps fully awake then, "Oh! Sorry!" and pulls her phone out of her pocket.

"Eames," she answers wearily and gets up slowly to move away for privacy.

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The note read: _B,_ _I'm going over for an x-ray now. A deal's a deal. Do not eat that danish left in the break room, I just saw Turner pick it up off the floor. Go get some sleep–A_

He looks quickly up to where her coat usually hangs. Yes, she really has gone. He sighs then and leans back in his chair.

He's forty-six years old. Still on the young side for a man. He doesn't get enough sleep, eats poorly, and drinks too much coffee. He even, now and then, sneaks a smoke. Still, his mind has never been sharper, his emotions never more even, and he walks on his treadmill daily.

Women still give him their numbers in bars. And he takes them. But none has caught him, has so fascinated and challenged him, or inspired his loyalty, to the point of change. Of accommodation. And they are never happy when the meaning of his work becomes clear.

He doesn't let himself think about that other sort of potential life. The one Deakins has, the one Alex probably had. That he isn't sitting in the room next to his mother's at Carmel Ridge right now must be enough for him...

But then words _she _said in Drew's interview creep back to haunt him, and whisper questions he does not want to answer.

He picked up the phone then and dialed her cell.

It rings several times before she answers.

"Eames..."

He knows how she feels, how she looks, with this single utterance.

"Hey."

"Hey."

"You're at the hospital?"

"Still in the waiting room. You'd love what the city's done with the place."

"You shouldn't have gone alone."

"My lady's maid had the day off."

"I could be there in fifteen minutes."

"There's no need. You've done enough."

He wonders for a moment if that's true.

"Bobby? You still there?"

And then... _and then, _inexplicably,he wonders if there might just be more for him.

This is a new thought for Bobby Goren.

More for him? And more for her too. Not to be found in bars or dance clubs, but within the daily going about of life, of work. With each other. For each other.

The simplicity and complication of this new thought stalls his ever-spinning mind for a moment, before a thousand more unanswerable questions wash over him like a wave.

So he drops it, doubt-ridden silliness that it is, and kicks it under the proverbial rug.

This is, after all, the real world.

He needs a drink. He needs sleep. He'd really like to get laid.

"_Bobby?_"

"Uh... yeah, sorry..."

He notices then that he's picked up a paperclip at some point and bent it into a spiraling corkscrew sort of shape.

"You make me say, 'Can you hear me now?' and you'll regret it."

"So, you're okay?"

"Dandy. Go home."

"Right."

"See you in the morning, Bobby."

And the familiarity, the sure promise, of this statement makes them feel better.

They both click off then determined that tomorrow will be normal again.

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It was later than she would have liked when she walked into the office the next morning. She'd awakened late to the radio, surprised to learn that it was Christmas eve.

She spied Bobby at his desk already bent over the newspaper.

She hung up her coat and quietly walked up behind him. Dangling her hand over his shoulder, she dropped something down with a plop onto the paper before him.

He startled a bit in a satisfying way.

"Merry Christmas!" she whispered into his ear.

"What's this?" he asked as he retrieved the object before him.

"_That _is my hospital id bracelet from last night," she told him as she crossed around to her own desk and pulled out the chair. "Three hours of my life I'll never get back, by the way. But a deal's a deal."

He played with the plastic bracelet for a moment. A.E. Eames, it read. DOB May 1, 1965.

"I told you I'd go with you," he reminded her.

"Then that would have been three hours gone out of your life too." She pointed to the bracelet in his hand, "Now don't say I never gave you anything."

"What did the doctors say?"

"Now, Detective Goren, I only promised to go. I didn't promise to make a report," she informed him saucily as she opened up her laptop.

He smiled but figured the fact that she was in the office, and not in surgery for internal bleeding or a punctured lung was probably a good sign, and decided to let it go for the time being.

"Hey, Eames," he looked around the office quickly, "Have you seen the paper this morning?"

She shook her head and followed his gaze, "I barely made it to work clothed." Her fellow squad members did seem unusually literate this morning, "What's up? Big lottery winner?"

Bobby got up and walked to her side of the desk with the newspaper in hand.

He spread the front page before her.

She peered down at the well-placed article proclaiming that the murderer of beautiful, slain opera singer Christine Larkins had been apprehended. She scanned the article quickly and looked up at Bobby in disgust.

"Did Carver write it_ for them_?" she hissed.

Bobby shrugged, "He seems to be digging in against the Feds. Larkins is an attractive victim. This is a very desirable solve."

"Yeah, nothing like pulling on the public heartstrings at Christmastime."

He pulled a chair out from an unoccupied nearby desk and pulled it over to sit close to her. He leaned his head onto his hand and bent close to her.

"Does it seem fishy to you?" he asked quietly.

She nodded, "Like Charlie Tuna's in the house."

"Why'd he do it?" Bobby asked, more to himself than anything.

She looked carefully about before responding.

"We need a look at their files," Alex decided. "I can try Carmen again, but I think I've tapped her out," she frowned thoughtfully, before looking up at Bobby with a sly smile, "Are you willing to take her to Atlantic City for a weekend in exchange for information?"

He only stared at her.

"Right," she laughed. "That cuts that out. You got any contacts over there? Some surprise friend in deep that I don't know about?"

He rubbed his chin, "Maybe," he allowed.

She nodded.

"Hey, you two!" Deakins was walking toward them with a smile on his face, a mug of coffee in his hand.

They looked up at the Captain then and stopped him cold with their thunder.

"I do not want to hear it," he commanded, as he resumed his pace toward them. "We've got the guy. The video confirmed Drew's story. Arano was there at the time of the murder. That's all we need for now."

"A motive would be nice,"observed Bobby.

"Or a murder weapon," added Alex.

Bobby nodded at her, "Yeah, either one of those would be good."

She nodded reflectively in return, "Evidence can help with prosecution, or so I've found."

"All right, cut the Bobby and Alex shtick. It's a done deal and it's Christmas. Until Carver asks for more, that's it. On a lighter note, did you guys see Features? They printed the three top poems by the city's finest today," Deakins told him as he sipped his coffee.

"Oh, right," said Bobby, picking up the paper again, "I did see that."

"We put those firefighters to shame," laughed the Captain. "Did you read the winner?"

"It was a wonderful piece," agreed Bobby thoughtfully.

"It kicked some serious firefighter rhyming ass!"

Bobby laughed a little, "The Water Spurted Cool, As it Drained from the Pool."

Alex rolled her eyes.

"Oh, come on, Eames, it's fun," cajoled Bobby.

"Not to mention good PR. Puts a human face on the department. That never hurts," added Deakins.

Bobby found the page then and handed it to Alex.

"There you go. It's a little dark."

"Elegy," she read the title. "Well, that's original."

"Read it," encouraged Bobby. "I'm interested in what you think."

She took a moment to do so as he watched her.

She looked up when she was finished, "Nice."

"_Nice?_ You don't find it moving?" he demanded.

"I think that there's a very lonely cop out there who should learn to bowl."

"It is interesting that the writer remained anonymous, though, don't you think?" frowned Bobby, as he took the paper back from her. "The second and third place winners signed their pieces. Too bad. He'll miss out on that thousand dollar first prize."

"They'll just put it in the Widow's Fund," shrugged Alex.

"Yes, a good cause. True."

Bobby began silently reading the piece again.

"Personally, I'm disappointed that Carrie and Sandra's limerick didn't place," snarked Alex. "I'm going for coffee. Want some?"

He didn't look up, "Yeah."

She shook her head at him and looked up at Deakins, "Captain?"

"I'm good."

She nodded and moved to go to the break room.

Deakins looked down at Bobby then, "Is she okay?" he asked.

Bobby looked up at him, "Yeah, she's fine."

"Captain!" someone yelled then, "Carver's on two!"

"Coming!"

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"Goren wrote it," said Turner, carefully avoiding last night's fallen danish for another,"No doubt about it."

"What makes you so sure?" asked Lampley as he poured creamer into his coffee and three sugars on top.

"Who else would write something like that?" chimed in Valdez, as he bit into a powdered sugar, "Hey, Alex," he turned to her as she poured two cups of coffee, "You think the big guy did it?"

"Did what?"

"Wrote that winning poem?"

"You're detectives, figure it out," she told them and turned to leave, "but _do_ finish your tea party first, Gentlemen," she tossed over her shoulder as she went.

The three grinned and watched her walk out of the room.

"Hardass, that Eames," observed Lampley.

"That's for damn sure," leered Turner still watching her walk away.

"Does make for a pleasant work environment," agreed Valdez.

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Her mind bounced from the case to the fact that it was Christmas the next day as she made her way back to the her desk. She'd done all her shopping at online close-out sales in August, so that was no problem. But there were one or two other things she wished she'd picked up. And she did not want to go to her sister's tonight, she really didn't.

"I think I'm going to email Carmen," she told Bobby as she set his coffee before him at his desk.

"It couldn't hurt, anyway."

"Thanks," said Bobby and took a sip as he flipped through his filofax, "You're right, it couldn't hurt."

She nodded and moved around to her desk then stopped suddenly, looking down in surprise.

"What's this?" she asked.

Bobby looked up, his expression veiled.

"My guess is long-stemmed roses, but you'd have to open the box to be sure," he replied. "They were just delivered."

She furrowed her brow and set her coffee down next to the long white cardboard box.

She untied the fine pink satin ribbon (No one she knew went to florists like this) and lifted the lid. And couldn't hold back the small gasp that erupted.

Glorious loose long stemmed white roses, mixed with white lilies, stems of red berries, with fern and evergreen. It looked to be dozens of each, and the smell rising from them staggered her a little.

Goren watched her.

She looked up at him wide-eyed, "Are you sure this was meant for me?"

"Is there a card?" he asked.

She looked back down into the box and retrieved a small linen envelope. Sure it enough, _Alex_ was written there in concise writing.

She withdrew the card and perused it.

"Eames!" she heard Deakins bark from behind her then, causing her to jump a little, "You gonna explain this to me?"

She turned and looked at him, "Sir?"

"I've just received one of the many daily reports I get. This particular one is from Belleview."

_Oh shit_.

"They keep we clueless Captains in the loop when any of our detectives happen to _show up at Emergency_."

"Captain..." began Bobby.

"Can it, Bobby. How hurt are you, Alex? I see you've got flowers there. Any news you want to break to me?"

She lifted her chin, "I'm fine, Captain. I got bumped on the Arano collar, that's all. Just took some precautions. Got my ribs x-rayed again. I was only there for three hours."

"Report, Detective!" he snapped.

She swallowed, "Deep tissue bruising. The earlier fracture slightly worsened. All evidence of the concussion, gone."

He nodded, "That's it. Go home, Eames."

"_But._.."

Deakins stared her down.

"Yes, sir."

"And by the way, Lincoln Center wants to thank us for nabbing Arano. We're invited to the Opera Gala on the twenty-eighth."

Alex bit back her moan, as Bobby lifted his brows.

"You two are going, and that's an order. You go home and rest, Eames. And when you feel better you crack open that purse of yours, let a few moths see the light of day, and get a new dress."

"What's wrong with my blue one!" she outraged as Goren snorted behind her.

"It's perfectly lovely, Eames. And fits you well. But, you wore it to the last Policeman's Ball and that mayor's thing, that's what," he ripped back. "We're going to be sitting at Cynthia Gillum-Carver's table, Alex. You really want to be seen in the same old dress?"

She thought for a moment about the well-known fashion victim married to the DA. She stood up straight and looked Deakins in the eye.

"With all due respect, _Sir_, the effects of raising three daughters has worn on you."

"You should see me French Braid. Go home, Eames. Bobby can do the paperwork today. We still don't know the fallout of his little stunt."

She looked over at her partner apologetically. He shrugged microscopically in return.

She sighed and began to gather her things.

_Damn, damn, damn, damn... _


	10. Ten

She slept from ten in the morning until five o'clock that evening without dreaming.

And awoke feeling better.

She wandered out into the living room, and glanced at the beautiful flowers she'd arranged in her grandmother's blue-green Roseville, and decided then and there to always have flowers instead of a tree. She just liked it better.

And why the hell not? She only has herself to please.

She pulled an old Columbia sweatshirt over her head, then popped a mug of water in the microwave, and slipped out the door to head down for the mail. Glancing out the plate glass in the lobby, she saw it had begun snowing again, and wondered if it was enough to get her out of driving out to Long Island later.

Back up in the apartment she threw the unopened cards and packages onto the console next to the flowers and went to make tea.

She was in no mood to see the family pictures surely within those cards. The new babies, the growing kids missing teeth. The beleaguered husbands missing hair. The innocent, happy faces.

Yuck.

My I'm jolly, she thought wryly, and took a sip of tea.

Well, screw it. Screw jolly.

She'd rested. She was feeling somewhat better. What was the point of sitting around on Christmas eve, focusing on a cracked rib? She was going to go out, she decided. Pick up a few things, watch the pretty fresh snow. Drop a buck or two into the buckets of bell-ringing Santas on corners. Why not? There was something wonderful and seasonal in the air in Manhattan on this night that slightly softened even a hard-boiled cynic such as herself.

So, one peanut butter sandwich, a phone call, and several layers of cashmere later, and she was out the door, humming _Santa Baby_.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The ice clinked and cracked in a satisfying way as he poured yet more scotch over.

He picked up the glass and took a deep drink before going into the bathroom, slipping out of his robe, and stepping into the shower.

It had been an introspective day. Unusually frustrating. Although he enjoyed the action of his job more than he should probably let on---the face to face mind games perhaps best, he also relished the odd quiet day of thinking. He'd scratch his pen over the standard forms and type awhile on the computer, but his mind was always elsewhere, playing over the chessboard that was the case.

But he'd never truly found his zone today.

That there were big pieces missing was clear, if only to he and Eames. But, nevertheless, there they were, _or weren't_, as the case may be.

And then his mind wondered over to Eames.

Which had pretty much been one of the problems of the day. The worsening of her injuries pissed him off. He should have made her go in earlier. And then he scoffed at that thought, as if he could make her do anything. She's a grown woman. And he's not sure exactly how he would have broken Drew had she left. He certainly wouldn't have done it as quickly. He hadn't been able fathom the hook into guy as she had. Frankly, he hadn't found him interesting enough.

Eames sure had though.

He took a final rinse, stepped out, toweled off, then brushed his teeth before moving into the bedroom to change. As he finally pulled his sweater over his head and slapped some cologne on, he noticed her hospital id bracelet lying on the bureau. He'd taken it from his pocket before he changed.

He picked up his drink and swallowed again as he considered it, then winced, his teeth set on edge...

_Toothpaste and scotch, _not a good mix.

And, so his mind turned to the evening ahead.

Women out alone on Christmas eve might be more... _receptive_. He hoped so, anyway. He could certainly do with the distraction, the escape, from the frustration of the case. Among other things.

And then the doorbell shook him out of that thought.

"Eames," he said in surprise, as he opened the door.

She smiled at him, "Merry Christmas. I've come bearing gifts."

He blinked a little at that.

"For me?"

"Among others," she nodded.

"We don't usually... I mean, we haven't ever really..." he bumbled a bit. And they hadn't. Usually they just bought each other lunch or a drink in lieu of gifts, for Christmas and birthdays.

She nodded, "I know. Call it impulse shopping. It's no big deal," she shrugged.

"_Impulse_ shopping?" he looked dubious.

She looked arch.

"You say that thing you're thinking right now out loud, and no present for you, _Beef_."

He held up his hands in surrender and grinned.

"Don't know what you're inferring... _Witch_."

She leaned against the doorjamb and cocked a brow.

"Are you going to let me in, or did I just catch ya washing out your delicates?"

He smiled again and stood aside, "I beg your pardon."

She walked into the his great room.

The place was bigger than hers and hadn't changed since the last time she'd been there. Simple, contemporary, clutter-free in a way that spoke both to his military past and a certain esthetic as well. A single large abstract on the wall in red and green, a little yellow around the edges.

He stood at the entry, hands pocketed in his casual slacks and watched her mull it over.

"Still makes me think of a heart. Or a fire. In a forest." she said only partly to him, her head cocked to the side.

He nodded.

"May I take your coat?" he asked.

She snapped out of her painting revery then and turned to him.

"Oh, no. I'm not staying. I know you're meeting Lewis. I just wanted to drop these off before you went."

"What are they?" he asked curiously.

"Well, you can't know all until tomorrow morning, of course," she informed him as she placed the gift bag she'd been carrying on his coffee table, and removed her gloves for easier access.

She withdrew first a small, flat box and handed it to him. He moved closer to accept it.

She looked up at him, "That's for Meg."

He lifted his brows, "Eames, you didn't need to ..."

She nodded, "I know. It's not much. A few of those little embroidered handkerchiefs, I noticed she uses. I just saw them in the store..."

He looked into her eyes, touched.

She laughed a little, "You might not want to tell her they're from me, though."

"Eames..."

"I like her, Bobby. I'm sad for her. And you. But she has this... I don't know, spirit, I guess. And I like her."

He nodded and looked down at the box in his hands, "Thank you, Alex, she'll appreciate it," he said softly.

She nodded and reached into her bag again.

"And this," she proclaimed with a grin, "is for Lewis."

He looked up in surprise, "Lewis?"

She laughed and handed him a small lumpy object wrapped in tissue.

"Yep, saw it and thought of him. Actually, I found it last summer. Forgot I had it until this evening. He'll like it, though."

He smiled and took it from her, "I'm sure he will."

She withdrew a larger box then, "And this is for you. Not much. But you've done so much for me lately..." she looked about and saw, without surprise, that Goren had no tree either. She set it on the table, "Open it tomorrow, you can pretend Santa dropped in."

He nodded.

"Well, this elf is off," she smiled and headed for the door.

He set the packages down and followed her.

"To your sister's?"

She turned and sparkled a grin, and shook her head, "Got out of it! It just so happens that newborn babies have this tendency to keep their parents up all night sometimes. Makes for a very tired Mommy. So, _they_ cancelled."

He laughed, "Well, that makes Christmas merrier for you."

"Yep. Poor Paula. I shouldn't be so happy..."

"But you really didn't want to go."

She frowned, "Whatever psychological analysis you may have on that... Well, could you save it until after the new year?"

"Absolutely."

"Thanks."

They smiled at one another for a moment.

"Hey, Eames," he began,"You're still welcome to join me and Lewis tonight."

She studied him a moment.

"Nah, I know what you two hope to... _accomplish_. I'd only get in the way."

"Plans can change. And I don't like to think of you alone."

She smiled up at him, "What makes you so sure I will be?"

And for the fiftieth time that day he thought about the flower delivery earlier that morning.

"I'm not," he told her honestly, and then leaned in closer, "But, seriously, join us. Lewis would love to see you."

She considered him another moment over this. He was probably his second scotch by now.

"Lewis would, would he?"

"Yeah. He likes it when you wear red."

"Does he?"

"Mentioned it in passing once," he shrugged.

She smiled, "Tell you what, maybe I'll drop by later."

He nodded.

"'Night Bobby, Merry Christmas!" she called over her shoulder and slipped out the door.

"Merry Christmas, Eames."

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Not bad, not bad at all.

He's feeling pretty good, in fact.

The jazz combo is excellent The crowd jovial, sophisticated even, and the scotch exceptional.

And Bridget just the tall, brunette, _willing_ drink of water to complete things.

_Merry Christmas to me._

"Another drink?" he asked her then, their thighs against one another in the cozy booth.

"You trying to get me drunk?" she smiled.

_Hell yeah._

"It's Christmas," he flashed the patented boyish grin, complete with signature shrug, "just want you to enjoy yourself."

"You're enjoying _yourself_, that's for damn sure!" called Lewis from the other side of the booth, "How many drinks you had there, Bobby?"

He grinned at Lewis, "That lovely redhead over there's going to give up on you, if you don't screw up some courage and make a move, man. Maybe another drink _could help you with that_?"

Lewis laughed, "I thought Alex was coming. I'm saving myself for her."

"Who's Alex?" queries Bridget then.

Bobby turns to her, wavering a little, "_Absolutely no one_," he growls a little, then slips his arm around her shoulders.

Bridget giggles in a satisfying way and he smells roses in her hair, so nuzzles it a little.

"Alex is the love of my life!" announces Lewis loudly, even though no one is paying attention.

"Excuse me, would you like to dance?"

Lewis looks up at the redhead standing beside him then.

"Where one romance ends, another must begin," he shrugged, grinned, and got up, albeit a little unsteadily...

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

_Ah, crap._

And she's already checked her coat.

But there they are drunk as skunks. And Bobby with a silicon-enhanced Amazon hanging all over him. She really hates it when he's that drunk. Bobby is never a good drunk. _What was she thinking, anyway? _And her ribs are hurting again. She should have just stayed home.

The good news is she hasn't been seen, so she can just turn around and head home for some more sleep.

That actually sounds like a wonderful plan right now.

She steals one more look at him before turning away and wonders briefly what yarn he is spinning, what brilliant insight he is sharing, or what lecture he is giving. She rolls her eyes. It really doesn't matter, whatever it is, _it's working_.

SuperModel is eating it up.

She turns to go.

"_Alex?_"

She turns back.

"David? Wh-what are you doing here?"

"The pianist is a friend of mine," he indicated the combo. "We were at Julliard together. This gig is a big break for him. And some _well-meaning_ friends thought I should get out. What can you do?" he shrugged.

She nodded and took in those blue eyes again. The broad shoulders she hadn't noticed before, or the long-fingered hands.

"What about you?" he smiled.

She sighed, "I was supposed to meet some people and then... well, it suddenly didn't seem like such a good idea anymore."

He nodded, and leaned in a bit, lowering his voice, "I've been wanting to talk to you, Alex..."

"Oh, my gosh!" she exclaimed, "I am so sorry, it's been a weird day. Thank you so much for the flowers, David. They were just beautiful. But, not necessary."

"I know. But I wanted to do it. I'm... grateful to you. Do you have time to have a drink with me before you go?"

_Why the hell not? It's Christmas_.

"That would be nice," she smiled up at him.

They found places near the corner at the bar. He took her elbow as she climbed up onto the stool.

"What would you like?"

"Gin and tonic, please."

He ordered their drinks and they each took a sip before beginning.

"David, I realize this isn't really the setting for this," she began, "but could I ask you something about the case?"

He looked down at her, "Only for you."

She nodded, "Friends been bugging you for the gory details?" she asked knowingly.

"_Yes_," he sighed in relief. "I guess you see that a lot in your work, but, for God sakes, I do not want to talk about it with everyone. I'm still sorting through it myself."

"You know," she tried gently, "you might want to get some... help with that. The sorting through."

"I'm considering it," he told her.

"Good," she smiled.

"So, what's your question, Detective?" he smiled.

"Can you think of _any_ _reason_ why Arano would have wanted to kill Christine?" she asked directly.

He looked at her a moment.

"They _were_ having an affair, weren't they?"

He deserved the truth, she decided then and there.

"Yes, David, they were."

"How do you know? ---No, wait a minute, I don't want to know how you know..." he waved the idea off.

"I can't tell you, anyway."

He nodded, his mouth tightened in pain.

"Well, to answer your question, Detective Eames, I have absolutely no idea why that guy would want to kill Christine. I can't imagine why anyone would."

She nodded thoughtfully, "Thanks."

He tried to smile, "Can we just be Alex and David now?"

"Let's do that," she agreed, and held up her glass, "Merry Chritsmas, David."

He met her eyes, "Merry Christmas, Alex," and clinked her glass with his own. "_Alex._.." he began quietly then...

"Aaaaa-lex! _Detective Aaaa-lex! There_ you are!"

She turned her stool and looked behind her.

"Lewis, hello..."

"Look at you..." he beamed at her.

Alex took in the redhead hanging on his arm, then looked back into his silly grinning face.

"This is the best woman in the world!" Lewis told whomever would listen then. "Just look at you," he leaned into her, breathing fire, "_Love_ that red sweater!"

She laughed, "Thanks, Lewis."

"And thank you for the best Christmas present ever, by the way, too and... _also_. I've been looking for that part for years...and that chrome is _mint_, baby!"

She nodded and laughed again, "I thought you might like it," she turned to David at her side, "Lewis restores old cars. Lewis, this is David."

"Hello, David," Lewis grinned at him, "I am drunk. And this," he turned to the redhead at his side, "is Carol."

"_Cheryl_," she slurred in irritation and walked off.

Lewis turned back to Alex and David, _"Oops!"_ he mouthed putting his hand over his lips in mock horror. "Hey, Bobby!" he called out, then, "Look who's here!"

Alex sighed. She glanced over and saw Bobby look up. His eyes narrowed at them and she watched as he excused himself to Gulliver and headed their way.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Bobby! Look, it's Alex!" smiled Lewis, as he approached.

"I can see that. Glad you came, Eames," he greeted her cooly. "Mr.Drew," he extended his hand to David. They shook and sized each other up.

"Why don't you join us, Detective?" asked David.

"_No_," interrupted Alex a little too quickly, and, _shit, _Bobby had caught it, "You're with someone," she reminded him.

"Oh, Bridget won't mind if I sit with some friends," smiled Bobby, slowly taking a seat behind her.

She's feels it then. He's setting his sites, and knows, as only she can, that he's honing in for a kill.

But he'll play first. Like a cat. The sick sonofabitch.

_What is it that possesses him?_

She watched then, as if from a great distance, as he laconically scooped a few nuts into his hand from the bowl before them and popped a few into his mouth, then dramatically munched for a moment.

Alex hoped against odds that this was not a symbolic act.

"Mmm, good," he tells them, "Salty though."

"Can I get you a drink, Detective?" offered David affably.

She wished she could tell Drew to run like hell.

"No, I'm fine," smiled Bobby. He stretched it into a grin then and looked back and forth between them, "I'm not _interrupting_ anything here, am I?"

"Oh, no, no," demurred Drew.

Bobby waggled a finger at him, "Thou dost protest too much, Mr. Drew, methinks," Bobby leaned in happily then, "Do you mind if I call you David?"

"No," Drew cleared his throat then, "Not at all..."

"He's Bobby," Alex told him dryly.

Goren leaned in even closer pressing into her back then, "Ooooh!" he nodded, and drew the word out as if something of great import had just dawned on him, "_You're_ the one who sent those flowers this morning, aren't you? Now, don't deny it!" he laughed in apparent delight, popped another nut as Drew shifted uncomfortably.

"I wanted to thank Alex..."

"For being _kind? _Right?" Bobby lifted his brows and looked at her, "Hey, Alex," he nudged her a little, "David here thinks you're _kind_. Isn't that sweet?"

"Bobby..." she tried to break in...

"And this _Snarky Little Witch _here," he rubbed her shoulder with his large hand, "didn't let on _who_ they were from. Ve-ry cagey, she was playing it. And it was the talk of the office, let me tell you. Best idea though, really, keeping it on the down low, a new romance."

Drew's eyes hardened, "Alex, would you like to...?"

"_What!_" demanded Bobby, looking farcically between them again, "Did I spill the romance beans too soon? Or is it you don't like it when I call her names?Is that it, David?_—_Like_ Snarky Little Witch? _Oh, don't worry about _that_, David. It's just one of a thousand little things we have between us. Being partners and all..." he leaned in conspiratorially, "makes us, _you know_, pretty close..."

Drew had his number now, Alex could see.

"I imagine it would," nodded Drew.

Alex sent a pleading look to Lewis then, but he only stood dumbly engrossed as if watching a tennis match.

She sighed.

"Oh, I just realized something!... Oh, no_, no.._." Bobby laughed then, "It's too good!" and he actually clapped his hands together in delight. "Oh, David, _no_. You didn't think everything she said to you... Oh, it's too much. You aren't naive enough to think Alex _meant _any of that, are you? In interrogation, I mean. Because, David, I have to let you in on something, bro, man to man: Police women have certain _assets, _my poor besotted friend, certain _ways _of getting men to talk. They develop them over the years. A lot of the guys admire it, actually. I know I do," he turned and beamed at her proudly. "Yep, Eames is the best. She knows how to get 'em to Crack like an egg, all right. Or, Sing like a bird----Or, that old stand by, _Eat the cheese_."

He winked knowingly at them then.

Alex was absolutely deflated.

She knew Bobby expected her usual tart tongue. Something that would slap his drunken ears back. That was their pattern. He relied on it. As if he were the child testing boundaries, and she the mother who must draw the line.

He'd just never gone for her before. He'd addressed Drew, it was true, but she had no doubt who his intended target was.

Well, fuck that, and grow up too, Bobby Goren, my lad, she thought angrily.

Frankly, she was too tired for it tonight.

And her ribs hurt.

As far as she's concerned, Bobby Goren can just go to hell.

She looked up at David Drew then, expecting him to be stricken, or disgusted , or any of the usual things she was accustomed to seeing in Goren's prey...

But was surprised to see none of these.

"Detective Goren..." began Drew then...

Bobby held his hand up with a smile, "Call me Bobby."

"_Detective Goren_," he began again, "I am well aware that Alex is a fine detective. And I know too that she had to say what was necessary to get me to talk. But, if you think for one minute that she contrived _all _she said to me, that she meant absolutely nothing by it, then I think you should stretch that arrogant brain of yours to learn one more thing about her, beyond that thousand you already think you know. And, frankly, after this display, I can't imagine why your admiration should mean a goddamn thing to her."

Drew turned to look at her then.

"May I take you home?"

"I'd appreciate it," she nodded, quietly.

She got down off her stool and walked to the door without looking back.

She did not want to see his face.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

He watched her go.

And then looked about quickly.

He's pretty sure no one can see how floored he is that she's left without a word.

Yeah, he knows what he's done.

And he's just not gonna care...

That's his story anyway, and he's sticking to it.

_Ah, fuck... what the fuck is the matter with me?_

"Scotch on the rocks!" he called to the bartender then.

He turned around and tried to smile heartily, "Hey, Lewis..." he began...

But it's Lewis' fist he meets instead.

Right in the jaw.


	11. Eleven

She pulled her coat check mutely from her pocket and forked it over to David for the exchange. And then bit her lip, her ribs stretching painfully, as he helped her slip it on. He put on his own, then took her arm and guided her out into the blast of cold that is Christmas eve in New York.

She tried to collect herself.

"We'll never find a cab," she looked ruefully down the street.

A group of caroling merry-makers came out of the club behind them. She turned to watch them walk up the street, their arms linked. They seemed happy.

She turned back and saw David clicking off his cell, and suddenly before her was a limo.

He opened the door for her.

"Your friends..." she suddenly remembered.

"...Are doing fine without me. I didn't want to come, anyway. And now I can give Frank here the rest of the night off, after all. Right, Frank?"

"Absolutely!" called the driver back over his shoulder.

"Address?"

She told him and they were off in silence. When they arrived at her building, David leaned forward and pressed the button to close the privacy window.

"I am so sorry, David."

"You're not the one who needs to be saying that," he observed.

She nodded, "I have no excuse for him."

"Does he treat you like that all the time?" he demanded.

She lifted her eyes to him and spoke truthfully, "No. He never has."

Drew thought about that.

"So, he's jealous."

She sighed and closed her eyes, "He can't be. It's not allowed."

David nodded, "Alex, this is sudden... But, you know I like you. _Really_ like you and that I would like to see more of you." She nodded. "I know it's ridiculous. We've only just met. And you're probably going to tell me that it's some kind of transference, or against regulations, or something. But, there it is, anyway. I haven't felt like this since I nailed Chopin."

"Aren't you sort of young to have done that?"

He smiled.

"David, here's the thing..."

He groaned and leaned back into the seat, "I don't want to know 'the thing'."

Her turn to smile.

"David, first I want you to know that I was not 'working' you with what I said in interrogation..." she turned thoughtful a moment, "Actually, that's wrong. I was. I was absolutely working you, but that doesn't detract from the truth which was also there."

"I know that," he returned. "I do... That babbling gorilla back there casts a pretty long shadow over you, doesn't he? I read up on you two. I know all about the _so-called brilliant _Detective Goren."

Alex sighed. "May God protect me from men who do research, _just once._"

"_Alex_..."

She looked up at him again, willing him to understand what she no longer felt be able to.

"David, the thing is, he _is_ brilliant. _And_ an absolute jackass. Most of the time the former, however."

"Well, the two aren't mutually exclusive."

"I don't know what to say, I really don't..."

"Alex..."

"What?"

"You... have feelings for him..."

"Is that a question or accusation?"

"I'll let you choose."

She closed her eyes again.

"This isn't about Bobby Goren," she insisted. _"_And... I really like you, too, David. I do..."

She took a deep painful breath, before beginning again, "But the timing here is wrong. Very wrong. And no one knows it better than I do. David... my husband was shot and killed in the line of duty seven years ago." She watched his eyes widen at this. "I know where you are, right now. I really do. And you still have miles to go, pal, _miles_..."

He opened his mouth to protest, but she stopped him, "_Miles_, David."

He closed his mouth and sighed his defeat.

"Goren and I..." she looked down at her hands, "are complicated..."

"I don't care about Goren."

He slipped his hand over to cup her cheek, and lifted her face to look at him.

"Detective Eames, could I call you in, say, a year from now?"

She smiled her gratitude, and nodded, "Why don't you do that."

He leaned in and kissed her then, and both took it a hungry step further.

And she knew it would be so easy, _so easy _to take comfort where it was offered. And to return it. Gently and sanely in a world that made sense. But knew too that it wasn't meant for her to play things out this way. Not with this man.

Her course had been set at some mysterious point in the past four years when, apparently, she hadn't been paying attention.

And damn if she knew where it was taking her.

They pulled away, and he slipped his fingers into her hair.

"_I want you_," he whispered.

"_Go home_," she whispered, wanting him back.

He nodded and got out as Frank came around and opened the door for her. David escorted her to the entry then, and kissed her cheek.

"_I'm going, I'm going_," he assured her. "Gotta get home so Frank here can sneak out to make some big cash on pick-ups."

"I heard that!" called Frank from the car.

"Goodbye, David," she tried to smile.

"Good_night_, Alex."

She made her way through her building, opting for the elevator as concession to her ribs. Once in the sanctuary that was her book-lined bedroom, she peeled off her clothes, sank to the floor and sobbed.

Long and hard, arms wrapped around her ribcage and rocking, as she had not done since Andy, and hadn't as yet for the baby, and certainly never had for herself.

So maybe it was for all at once.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Come on, you rat bastard," said Lewis as he grabbed Bobby by the collar.

He tossed some money on the bar, enough to keep the bartender quiet he hoped, and dragged Bobby to the front hall. He propped him against the wall while he reclaimed their coats. Then opened the door, shoved his best friend out, and threw his coat in his face.

The leather made a pleasant thwack.

But it wasn't enough to satisfy Lewis. He was itching to hit him again. But opted for snorting in disgust instead, and starting down the block in search of a cab, hoping for luck at the corner. Bobby watched him go for a moment, then slipped on his coat and followed.

It took them forty-five minutes, but they found one. When they got in, Goren gave Eames' address to the cabbie.

Lewis looked at him, "Are you fucking serious? That woman has a gun. I only wish I did to save her the bullet."

"I've got to talk to her..." mumbled Bobby.

"I think you've done enough talking for one night. Probably for a lifetime. Jesus, Bobby, I might just punch you again."

Bobby nodded as Lewis gave Goren's address and they headed off in stony, miserable silence. Goren staring unseeing out the window, Lewis clenching his fists in his lap.

Once in his apartment, Goren walked to the phone and hit speed dial. He listened as it rang and rang until the machine picked up.

'_This is Alex Eames, please leave a message..._'

"Eames, it's me. I, _uh_..." he cleared his throat, "Could you pick up? Please, Alex... Okay... Look, I've thought about it... _Analyzed_ it. It's about fear, I think... And need... _Alex? _Are you there? I..."

And the machine beeped off.

He turned around to the king-sized stink-eye only Lewis could produce.

"Smooth. Real smooth, man."

"Look, I know what I've done..."

"You do, hunh?"

"Eames will understand. _I'll_... I'll apologize. Explain my motivation."

"Yeah, and what's that?"

Bobby looked up at him.

"What _is_ your motivation, Einstein?"

Bobby sighed, "Lewis, you wouldn't..."

Lewis lifted his brows, "Understand? I wouldn't _understand? _Is that it Bobby?. That what you were going to say?"

"_No_..."

"Well, dumb ole' Lewis understands a lot more than you think, you prick." He stepped in and stared him down, "You think I just joke around? You think _I'm joking_ when I say how great that woman is?"

"No..."

"You're damn right, I don't. You know what, Bobby? I don't care. I really don't. You take the best thing that ever happened to you and walk all over it? Fine. Whatever. I've been with you for a long time. I've seen you do stuff... " he shook his head, unable to finish.

"I know, Lewis, I'm sorry. I appreciate it, man, you know that."

Lewis looked up at that.

"Bobby," he sighed, "You're forty-six years old. You've got a crazy mother, a job you're good at, and a brother you don't talk to, and you're still running. Your life is your life, and you ain't living it. Let me ask you this, how old was Meg when she first started showing symptoms?"

"In her teens."

"_In her teens_," repeated Lewis. "Well, those odds are looking up for you then."

"That doesn't mean..."

"Screw it, and _screw you_! I don't care what it means. You either live the life you got, or make it better, Goren. Those are the choices. Jesus Christ, if I had a chance with Alex Eames, I'd be on my knees in front of her right now. You're a fucking prick, Bobby."

And with that he turned to leave.

"_Lewis_," he stopped him, his roaming eyes the only tell of his distress, "Do... do you think she's with him right now?"

Lewis took a hard stare at him, opened the door, and left.

He turned numbly back into the living room then...

_Fuck, fuck, fuck..._

And spotted the package she'd brought him earlier. He walked slowly over, sat on the sofa a moment, then reached for it. A plain white box, tied with a wide green ribbon.

He slid it off and lifted the lid.

Under the fold of crisp tissue paper within was a hot water bottle. His initials monogrammed on its gray flannel cover. In red.

A piece of paper still in the box drew his attention then. He lifted it up.

_To keep you warm at night—Alex_

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

She parked the SUV behind two late model mini-vans, and a dated Ford hatchback, then reached over and pulled a small notebook out of the glove box, and duly noted her personal mileage in it.

A small chore to keep up in exchange for the constant use of a 'company car.'

She took a deep drink then from her travel mug.

The snow had stopped sometime long before dawn, but the plows had been out. It was a picture postcard Christmas day. Sunny, bright, and frosted with new snow. She got out of the SUV, the climb down not inconsequential when you're five'two, have had no sleep, and currently sport a cracked rib.

"Still too cheap to buy your own car?"

"Merry Christmas to you too."

"You're late."

She looked up as Gareth, her younger brother, came crunching snow toward her.

"Sue me," she crabbed and moved to the back of the vehicle. He joined her and took the two canvas carry bags full of gifts out for her.

"Sneaking a smoke?" she asked.

He rolled his eyes, "Popin' Fresh and crew are way too happy this morning. You look like shit, by the way."

She could only nod at that.

They walked in through the kitchen side entrance. She couldn't specifically remember using the front door since her prom date had picked her up senior year of high school.

"Nancy Drew is in the house!" called Gareth. "I'll put these under the tree," he told her.

She unbuttoned her coat and looked around at the devastation that was the kitchen.

Her father, and two older brothers were in the middle of their annual melee called 'Making Christmas Breakfast', which never got served until eleven, the family by then starved to the point of low blood sugar induced coma.

"Hey, Pop, how're the pancakes going?"

"Alexandra!" smiled her father. He walked over and kissed her cheek.

"Merry Christmas, Dad," she smiled.

"It will be as soon as we get this ready."

She nodded, "Hey, Charlie," she turned to the second oldest in her sibling line-up. He was at the table with his twin boys looking on, sticky and wet, as he squeezed orange juice.

"Hey, Al. Jesus, what happened to you? Get a new case last night? Say hi to Aunt Alex, boys."

"Hello, boys," she smiled.

"Did you bring your gun?" asked Ned, the only one who ever talked.

"Not today," she lied. Charlie nodded his thanks in her direction.

"Casey on duty this morning?" she asked.

"Yeah, pulled the Emergency Room, always fun at Christmas, but she'll be here at noon."

"_Dammit!_"

She turned, "Oh, my gosh! _Here!_" she grabbed a hand towel and tossed it at her oldest brother, Henry, who'd apparently just tried to remove blueberry muffins from the oven with his bare hands.

She hung her coat up in the mud room then and slipped into the family room.

Henry's teenage son, Noah, sat obliviously mummified by earphones and some sort of handheld game in the corner. She scrubbed her hand over his head and got a grunt for the effort.

"Hey, Ma. Merry Christmas!"

Her small mother, whom even she dwarfed, looked up at her from the romance novel, _The Pirate's_ _Captive_, noted Alex, she sat reading by the fire. She peered at her youngest daughter over the glasses perched on her nose.

"Have they done the bacon yet?" she asked.

"Nope."

Her mother rolled her eyes.

"There's a pitcher of Bloody Marys on the sideboard, honey, help yourself." She then looked around before lowering her voice, "Barbara brought a box of Balance Bars this year. They're hidden in the table linen drawer. Your father will never look there."

She nodded and walked over to sneak a bar just as something made a unpleasant thud and splashing noise in the kitchen.

She looked at her mother in concern.

"_We're fine!_" she heard her father's jovial call.

Her mother took a deep drink of her Bloody Mary then as Alex walked back to sit next to her.

"Where is Barbara?" she asked as she tossed a bar to Noah and opened one for herself.

"Well," said her mother, putting down her book. "I imagine she and Gareth are out back, or very possibly in the garage, smoking."

She nodded.

Her mother studied her daughter a moment.

"_What?_" asked Alex as she munched her bar.

"What's happened?"

"Ribs are still bothering me."

"Uh huh."

"_What? _They are!"

Her mother leaned in, "So, I don't think that Arano guy did it."

"Ma, you know I can't talk cases with you."

"Yeah, yeah, Miss High and Mighty Major Case," her mother scoffed. "I mean, what was the guy's _motive?_"

"Ma..."

"All right, all right. Not talking about the case. Where's Bobby today?"

She sighed. "With his mother. I hope."

"That's nice."

"So where're Carl and Paula?"

Her mother sighed, and took a long look at her obviously exhausted daughter, "They're in the bedroom with the baby. You need to go in and see them, Alex."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

A harbinger startled him awake at dawn.

Not that he believed in such things, but he hadn't had the taunting Wallace dreams in months. In the dark hungover night, she'd come to him again though. Like Marley in chains. The threats of loss, the rubs at what he could never have...

He stretched awkwardly on his couch, the empty hot water bottle on the floor beside him, and thought about her. And then all the words, the horrible words, came back. If there'd been a drop of moisture left in his body, if the alcohol hadn't sucked him soulless and dry, he might well have cried.

He looked over at his phone and thought about calling her. A thousand times that morning as he showered, shaved, dressed, and choked down coffee and aspirin, he thought about her.

About Alex.

And then, as he paused before locking his door behind him... he knew. No fireworks, no surge of violins, just knowledge. Then and there.

But with such... longing. An actual physical ache that had been no part of any previous hangover.

He was surprised by this. Surprised to feel longing. At this point in his jaded life and for a woman he'd worked beside for years.

Like the bright sun shooting into his aching head as he pulled out of the city...

He knew he loved her.

He's not young. She, no ingenue. And it's not adolescent hormones or a fleeting thrill to light up a dark life. But the real, terrifying thing.

That he'd always wanted to sleep with her had never been a question. That was something always kept easily at bay. But, this... _this_ could ruin things. Everything, in fact, for both of them.

But there's the longing. And the fucking cliche that he just wants her anyway and to hell with all else.

And that he's hurt her.

And that she's probably just awakened with another man...

"Hah! Another vowel, you are toast!" cried Meg in satisfaction.

He looked up, startled back into the moment.

"No one likes a bad winner, Mom," he reminded her.

"Perhaps not, but I've got thirty points on you."

"You are the Scrabble champ, Mom," he agreed without enthusiasm.

She paused in the game to consider him. "What's happened to you, son?"

"Hmm?" he feigned focus on the board.

"You've been in a fight. I can clearly see that. I'm crazy not blind. Your father used to come home with that same bruise. Must be a genetic blind spot or something."

He rubbed his jaw unconsciously.

"I think you added the points wrong, Mom. But it comes out for you, anyway."

"Fine, fine, don't tell me. Listen, I would like you to apologize to Alex."

He looked up at her, surprised, "What?" he checked.

"I was... unacceptably rude to her, Robert. As only you know I can be. I can't live with that on my conscience, but can't trust myself to see her again either. So, I must ask you to do it for me."

He stared at her, "Sure, Mom, it that's what you'd like."

She nodded her thanks.

"There's something troubling you, Robert?"

He laughed hollowly.

"A case?"

He stood up and walked over to look out the window toward the iced over lake, and then stretched his arms over his head.

_What the hell, it doesn't matter now._

"Truth is, Mom. I don't know if Alex is ever going to speak to me again, so maybe you should write her a note instead."

"Why wouldn't she be speaking to you?"

"I was a jackass to her."

Meg nodded knowingly, "Well then, that makes two of us, doesn't it?"

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It had been dark when she left her mother's house.

She'd pushed past the protests to stay the night, to spend the next day with them all, watching the kids on new bicycles, helping to clean the kitchen, cuddling the baby.

She's tired. She wants her hot water bottle and bed. Maybe even cocoa before hand, or just tea.

Next year she's going to insist on drawing names for gifts. One gift for the adult you've drawn, that's it. She's not going to stop them from spoiling all the kids. Heck, she enjoys it too. There is a certain satisfaction to giving your twin nephews sets of drums, and then going home to peace and quiet yourself.

But she is tired of being the aunt who comes home alone with multiple pairs of oversized slippers, and humorous novelty 'cop' mugs, which always seem to feature doughnut jokes.

She crossed her own threshold at last, peeled off her coat, and kicked off her boots, then popped a mug of water into the microwave.

There were no messages.

She moved into the living room and then remembered the cards and packages she'd abandoned just yesterday. Though that now seems over a decade ago.

She gathered them up and plopped on the couch.

One of the packages she knows to be from a childhood friend in California. It will be fruit, or wine, as it always is. The other has been shipped from a local shop directly. She doesn't recognize the name.

She slid her thumb under the tape and ripped the paper down to reveal a silver gift box, removed the lid , pulled back tissue and... caught her breath.

_Wow._

She pulled out a long full scarf, or wrap, she guessed. Of deep, deep chocolate and made of lighter-than-air raw silk and something else, even softer, that she can't identify.

She couldn't remember the last time she'd received anything so... feminine. So, perfect.

She sighed, and dug for a card.

_Merry Christmas—Bobby_

And then the microwave dinged.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It was not an easy night.

Not for sleeping or thinking, and her water bottle felt too hot, and then it suddenly seemed to cool off. She slept in fits and starts, thinking she should talk to him, thinking she shouldn't. She wants normalcy again, not this knot in her stomach, this pain. She wants to be well and working on cases...

And then the telephone woke her.

She tried to clear her throat, and open her eyes, and look at the clock at the same time, without much success.

Squinting, it looked to be six thirty. A new case?

"Hello?" she croaked.

"Alex?"

"Yes?"

"It's Lewis."

Suddenly she's awake.

"What's happened?"

"Listen, I'm sorry I woke you."

"Lewis, _please_..."

She listened to him sigh, "Alex, Meg Goren died last night."


	12. Twelve

The first message she left on Bobby's cell phone was at six fifty eight a.m...

"_Bobby? It's Alex. Lewis just called and told me about Meg. I am so sorry. Please call me and let me know what I can do to help."_

But at six thirty two a.m., she was still trying to fathom what Lewis had told her...

"_Oh, no._"

"Yeah. In her sleep. At least it was peaceful. Bobby put me on the Emergency Call List at Carmel Ridge after Rick moved to Seattle. They just called and told me."

"Have you talked to him?"

"Not yet. He's not answering his cell."

"Has the nursing home spoken to him at least?"

"From what they said, yes. So, he knows."

"His brother?"

"I don't know. I'm going to call him next to make sure."

"Lewis.."

"Yeah?"

"Did... did he get home okay the other night?"

Lewis paused a moment, hearing what was meant in her voice.

"Yes, Alex, he did. I took him home myself."

She sighed her relief. "You're a good friend."

"So are you. Better than he deserves."

"Will you call me if you find anything out?"

"Sure. As soon as I know."

"You have all my numbers?'

"Yes, and don't worry."

"Thank you, Lewis."

"Take care, Alex."

Her second call to Bobby's cell phone was at eight thirty a.m...

"_Bobby? I know this has to be hard for you. Please let me help. Call me."_

By mid-morning, she'd done all her laundry, organized her files on WordPerfect, and had spoken with Deakins, who knew even less than she.

On impulse then, she pulled on her boots, slipped into a down jacket, and walked to his apartment. They'd long ago exchanged keys. Pretty standard practice between partners, but they'd as yet had no occasion to use them.

First time for everything.

She stepped in and could still smell the scotch in the stale air.

She walked curiously into his living room and saw right away the opened box and ribbon from her gift. That froze her for a moment. Wondering if he'd liked it, or thought it funny, or just unsophisticated and silly.

His finely made casual shoes were next to the coffee table, she noted.

Next, she moved into the bedroom. The bed clothes had been thrown back. It looked as if he'd been in bed when they called from Carmel Ridge. He'd left in a hurry. A former military man like Goren would have made the bed on any ordinary morning.

She walked around the bed, sat down, and star sixty-nined the phone on the bedside table.

He'd called her number at six fifteen a.m. that morning.

_He'd called her. _She closed her eyes.

Right after he'd found out, he'd called her. But had hung up before the ring.

She lay back on his pillow then and stared up at the ceiling thinking about that a moment.

He must have been feeling bloody when Lewis brought him home from the bar on Christmas eve, and all Christmas day too, if she knew him at all. Like the jerk he'd been. He'd first tried to justify himself to himself (and her answering machine) with psychobabble, but when it came down to it, he would have known how his words had wounded, and he would have been full of regret.

But he'd called her anyway.

_First thing_.

She sighed.

Oh, Bobby...

She rolled onto her side then, the rich smell of him in her nose from the bed. The sheets were fine and soft. The highest of thread counts if she knew Goren... and they were... _wonderful_...

She stroked the silky fabric up through her fingers, a comfort gesture of old...

And felt herself drift...

...a Squad Christmas party... last year? The year before? She doesn't know. At that bar with the tall waiter... Bobby'd bought her a drink... and they'd laughed knowingly at one another when Lampley and Cruz left early together... He'd leaned down and whispered in her ear, '_Don't ask, don' tell, Eames'_...

And she'd looked up into his shining eyes and whispered back, _'Tell what?'_

And they'd laughed again. A roomful of detectives and Cruz and Lampley were leaving early together...

And that drink, that green Christmas thing... had been good, she remembered...

She slid down a little then... and toed off her boots, and eased her feet under the covers...

Just for a minute... that's all...

_Poor Bobby_... _Poor Meg_... She hoped she'd found peace... finally...

And she slid a bit further then because it's cozy... until her feet bumped into something...

She reached down and retrieved the new hot water bottle from within his sheets...

The flannel cover had been worth the extra cost, she decided...

It was still warm.

Which made her sigh a little...

She wrapped her arms around it and fell asleep...

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Paula had just put the baby down on their parent's big bed, and had conked out next to the little guy, when Alex slipped into the room to see the new family on Christmas Day.

Carl had smiled at her and put his finger to his lips. She nodded and sat in her mother's chair near the bed. She looked then at her brother-in-law's face as he stared down at his wife and baby, and then had to look instantly away...

It was too much.

Carl went to seek coffee a moment later and she idly wondered how much sleep they'd all had in the past seven weeks.

Not much by the look of it.

She looked at her older sister. Only two years older but today she looked haggard. Her clothes clearly chosen for comfort. But the way the baby snuggled against her as they slept... The way their breathing, and probably heartbeats too, moved in synchronicity... Well, this was the miracle... the very animal bonding between mother and child happening right before her very eyes.

And her breasts ached for it.

Just as she knew it could not be hers.

Where were her tears? Where were they? Shouldn't she have cried?

She looked closer at them then. At this sacred intimacy. If Bobby were there he would be able to tell her about their brains, about the hormones... her sister's endorphins, positive and full of love would seal her emotions to this baby for life. And the baby? He was learning his mother's scent, her breathing patterns, and he was growing.

Bobby would say, _'That's why they sleep so much, Eames, they secrete growth hormone then. They need that sleep, to forge those neural pathways! To get strong!'_

She almost laughed out loud then at the Bobby lecture in her head.

But she knew if she made a sound, she'd wake them. And they needed their sleep. And if she made any noise at all it wouldn't be laughter, but quite its opposite.

So she got up and sneaked out of the room.

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She woke slowly in Bobby's bed and looked at the cool shade of gray on the wall.

And felt a bit sheepish as she slowly came to and glanced at the clock. Only an hour.

She reached for the phone.

The third call to Bobby's cell phone at twelve thirteen p.m. logged her brain silently...

"_Hey. I'm at your apartment. I don't know why. I guess I was worried about you... Am worried about you... Please call me... this is Alex."_

She got up.

He'll call when he's ready. He's a grown man. And if he doesn't, then Lewis will.

She's made her mind up.

She's going to go about her life. She has things that need doing. She'll have her cell with her, she can always be reached. She walked purposefully toward the door then and stopped at the sight of her hospital id bracelet on his bureau.

The fourth call to Bobby's cell phone at twelve fourteen p.m...

"_What happened the other night just doesn't matter, Bobby."_

As soon as she clicked her phone off, it rang, causing her to jump.

"Eames."

"Alex?"

"Lewis, thank God! What do you know?"

"There's going to be a memorial service at eleven tomorrow at Carmel Ridge. Rick and his wife are flying in tonight. Meg's... Well, she's left her body to science, Alex. To the specific research of schizophrenia at Harvard—they have an endowment."

"Really? Wow."

"Yeah... she was a great old broad. I could tell you stories..."

"I'm sure you could. Did you talk to Bobby?"

Lewis was silent for moment.

"Lewis?"

"Yeah, briefly. He's fine."

"You're sure?"

"Yes, Alex, I'm sure."

"Okay... Well, good."

"Would you like me to pick you up in the morning and take you up there?"

She sighed.

They made their arrangements then and she clicked off.

Her fifth and final call to Bobby's cell phone that day was at twelve twenty one p.m...

"_I'm coming tomorrow... Just... just take care of yourself, Bobby."_

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She'd had the notion that she'd be riding to Meg Goren's memorial service in a red muscle car. But Lewis had brought a navy blue Mercedes. In flawless condition, of course.

So she found herself on the way to Carmel Ridge that next morning in her navy blue suit, worn under a navy blue coat, in a navy blue car, looking up at a very bleak sky.

She turned to look at Lewis.

"Thank you again."

"I'm glad to do it," he responded and she believed him.

"You knew Meg when you and Bobby were in high school?"

"Junior high first. She single handedly hoisted my ass through senior English, though, I can tell you that."

"She was well enough to do that?"

Lewis shrugged, "Meg was always well enough for books. Could go weird on other stuff now and then, but I didn't care. When there's... violence... in your own home... Well, she was never violent. I practically lived at their house."

And here was the connection between these two men.

"What about Richard?"

"He's older. Somehow that made it harder, I guess. Rick was always sort of a shy guy. Big like Bobby, and more athletic, but not a talker. Straight as an arrow. He audits banks now. Got a scholarship for college, and then got as far away from Meg as he could."

Alex didn't miss the distaste in his last statement. She thought then about this odd home. This family comprised of three boys, and this brilliant but ill woman.

"And Bobby's father?"

"Bobby never told you any of this?"

"Not really. Some, but not all. I'm just being nosey, it's an occupational hazard."

"You care about him. And are the best thing that's happened to him since he's been on the force," stated Lewis unequivocally.

Alex was a little taken aback by the strength behind this statement.

"You seem pretty sure about that."

He glanced sideways at her briefly.

"I am." He went on then, "Richard Goren Senior was a drinker. Fill in your own blanks about that. He taught school mostly and spent as many hours away from home as he could. Things weren't easy with Meg, but let's just say that man did not do his duty by her and leave it there. They all deserved better."

"It's a terrible disease."

"It's been a time bomb for the family. And once it explodes, it just resets to go again. Bobby's been putting out fires his whole life. She always responded best to him."

"Do you think she has peace now?"

She watched him swallow and well a bit before answering, "I sure as hell hope so."

She nodded. "What about Bobby?"

He considered that, "I think that it could potentially be a very difficult thing for a forty-six year old man to achieve that, when he's only known it's opposite. Then again, do any of us ever get there?"

"To peace?" checked Alex, "I suppose not."

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They signed in and walked past Julie the receptionist, who didn't deign to greet them, then through the double doors, down the long hall, and past the closed door that had been Meg's.

Finally they reached the non-denominational chapel.

They slipped in the back and nodded to the hushed assembly. A recording... Mozart? she never knew, played softly in the background.

And then, up front, she saw him.

He stood in one of his well-cut dark suit, his arms crossed before him, talking to what looked to be a priest. Another, and if possible, even taller man made a third. Rick. His brother Richard, she assessed. Thinner, more gray, but clearly the brother.

There were maybe a dozen flower arrangements about the room.

The priest stepped to the podium then and lifted his hands.

"Please be seated. May I have the family and their supporters come to the front?"

She watched as Rick joined a tall dark haired woman on one side of the aisle, and felt her heart skip then as Bobby hesitated, momentarily unsure of his place.

No. No way. This is not how it's going to be. Not at his mother's funeral.

She could not bear the thought of him sitting across the aisle from his brother alone.

She shot Lewis a pointed look then and, without thinking, yet on some deeper level also understanding significance of her act to all present, walked directly up to him through the parting of the pews, and took his hand.

Bobby looked down at their clasped hands, then up into her eyes. Her throat constricted at the uncertainty she saw there.

She led him to claim their own space in the opposite family pew, sat down beside him, Lewis on the other side, and fixed her eyes on the priest before them.

And did not release his hand.

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Her father had put in thirty five years on the force.

Thirty five.

He'd bought a home, loved his wife, and raised five kids. And she believed he'd been honorable through all this. Perhaps that was naive, and she'd pretty much given up naivete years ago, it having died with her husband. But she still believed that Johnny Eames' corruption had not come until the end.

Throughout her childhood, though, in the most hackneyed of ways, he had been her hero.

She had not considered before what it might mean to have parental illusion like this shattered while still in childhood...

"I am Father Christopher and come here today as a friend of many years to Margaret Drummond Goren. Not that she had much patience for religion," the white-haired man smiled fondly for a moment. "She was a remarkable woman. And, in my many years of visiting the ill, I can honestly say that I've never seen a braver front put up to what can only be described as a pretty raw deal. I was proud to have known her. In accordance with her wishes, I am keeping my statements brief this morning. _'Ted,' _she used to say to me_, 'you talk too much."_

Father Christopher paused here as the tension broke away from the gathering and into small chuckles.

"Her sons have issued a request for mass to be said in her name at St. Anne's in Hopeville on Sunday. I hope some of you will join us. And now I will ask her elder son Richard to come forward."

Alex turned and saw Rick's wife give him a small smile of support before he stood up and walked to the podium.

"Our mother was born Margaret Anne Drummond in Amherst, Massachusetts on January twenty-seventh, nineteen thirty, though she often lied and said it was nineteen thirty-five..."

Alex felt the room warm to Richard's words over. And listened as he detailed his mother's love of books, her writing, and her proud accomplishment of being published in The New Yorker.

But what she felt was the deep stillness of the man beside her. She wondered where he was in the layers and layers that comprised his mind, and selfishly squeezed his hand then to try and bring him back to the present. To her. He did not squeeze back, but he did not let go either.

She was aware then that Rick was finished and seated again and that Father Christopher had announced Robert Goren.

Bobby released her hand and, without looking at her, took his place at the podium.

She watched then as he took in the sizeable crowd for the first time, his eyes wide and unbelieving.

Nursing home staff, several patients, Deakins and his wife Sylvia, and the Eames family.

All of her brothers, their wives, and her parents.

He pivoted his head and met her gaze then. She sat up straighter and nodded for him.

He looked down at the paper he'd withdrawn from his breast pocket, cleared his throat, and began.

"I... I'd like to share a poem with you. Mom loved poetry. It is a new piece. Some of you may have seen it recently in the newspaper. Mom and I... we read it together on Christmas Day.

It's called... _Elegy_...

_To've lain down, lain down that gild of innocence,_

_---To've stood unbending in the darkest place,_

_Having questioned God's will and Eminence,_

_---Still resolve each day anew, with brave face._

_To've done this with anger, with grace, with wit,_

_---That those walking thus gilded might sleep safe._

_And to've gambled life in this fright'ning skit,_

_---That you may hurry home, well-lit with faith._

_Quietly, quietly, I shall protect you,_

_---And stand by your gate the long howling night._

_Peace of mind offered, its price coming due,_

_---Paid by my fellows, who've fallen from sight._

_So stand there hale, breathing free, breathing free,_

_---I'll hold you high, where you might catch your breath._

_Steadfast in shadows behind you is me,_

_---Guarding you, keeping you, true until death._"

Bobby paused and looked up.

"Mom thought it pretty damn good, even if a cop did write it..."

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He'd left.

As soon as it was over. Just walked right out. He knew he should stand and shake hands as his brother was surely doing even now. He should thank them all for the extraordinary act of coming to say goodbye to a woman who'd been shut away for twenty years.

He should stand and listen as they said those appropriate things they needed to say and be glad for them. For the flowers, the gestures.

But he'd left instead...

He turned a page then in the worn volume he'd been perusing for the last half hour.

_Three of us afloat in the meadow by the swing, _

_---Three of us abroad in the basket on the lea. _

_Winds are in the air, they are blowing in the spring, _

_---And waves are on the meadow like the waves there are at sea. _

_Where shall we adventure, to-day that we're afloat, _

_---Wary of the weather and steering by a star? _

_Shall it be to Africa, a-steering of the boat, _

_---To Providence, or Babylon or off to Malabar? _

_Hi! but here's a squadron a-rowing on the sea-- _

_---Cattle on the meadow a-charging with a roar! _

_Quick, and we'll escape them, they're as mad as they can be, _

_---The wicket is the harbour and the garden is the shore._

He smiled a little. He'd always loved that one...

Then felt the light change on his face before she spoke.

"I just overheard Julie telling one of the cafeteria ladies that she thinks I look like a mouse."

He looked up to see her standing in the ajar door. The light from the hall window behind burning about her hair.

She stepped in, shut the door behind her, and leaned against it.

"I don't think she likes me very much. Did you break her heart, Goren?"

"Not intentionally."

She nodded and walked over to look out the window.

"Meg had a beautiful view here. It must have been nice for her to watch the seasons change. You did well by her, Bobby. The best that you could."

"Eames, look at this," he said then, as if it were any ordinary day, and the beloved book in his hands a report or photo of a crime scene.

She crossed to him, took the book and read the poem there.

"I don't remember that one..." she mused.

He nodded and looked up at her from the little wooden chair he'd perched on beside his mother's bookshelves. She was close enough that he caught the caught the scent of her perfume. It overwhelmed him a bit, this familiarity. It seemed a very long time since he'd been with her.

She closed the book then and looked down at him.

"It was... good of your family to come. I... should go thank them."

"No need. They understand. They're old school. A cop's partner is family too."

He nodded, "Still, it was good of them."

She cracked a small wry grin then and it washed right through him, this gesture so of her.

"Try to hold onto that outlook when all those freezable casseroles start showing up tomorrow," she advised.

They paused a moment over this.

"She had a good last day, Eames."

"I'm glad, Bobby."

"She wanted me to apologize to you for that time I brought you..."

She nodded, "That was good of her."

He nodded and looked down a moment.

"I... I should apologize to you too, for the other night, for Christmas eve... I..."

But the words dissolved as his body convulsed. His hand reached blindly for her hip...

And she stepped between his knees, drew his head to her breast, lay her cheek on his head, and held him as he cried.

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_Pirate Story _by Robert Louis Stevenson, found in _A Child's Garden of Verses_.


	13. Thirteen

**F**or long moments, with his face pressed to her sternum, he struggled to let go and hold on at once.

Such contradictions were the sum of him, after all. And so his sobs were silent and withheld, though the tears ran. His usual constant motion stilled to only the fight for breath control.

And so on.

There was the impetus to consider as well.

Bobby could cry this way, clinging to this small woman he loved, yet detach and watch it all mute and from far away at once. This is who he is, who he has become. He has no illusions about this duality. Whether it is actual schizophrenia, or just jazz---an improvisational riff taken from his childhood Master Teacher in order to survive, he's never known.

And it doesn't matter. It is merely who he is. Who he's been becoming since he was seven years old. These neural pathways are deep canyons now.

He knows as he cries that Eames thinks him mourning his dead mother. And, of course, he was.

But what he could not list aloud, because of the look that would surely cloud her face, were the other reasons for this letting-go and holding-on.

For these were boiled and bubbled up from the real and very selfish Bobby Goren deep within.

Like the fucking gratitude he has that she is there, and is willing to forgive him. The relief that he has not lost her. The relief that the prison which had been his mother's life entwined with his own has released him at last.

The terror that she really has gone.

And the sheer fury at finally knowing. Finally finding one of his answers in this woman who'd been quietly by his side for so long, and yet being unable to do a goddam thing about it.

Because he is afraid to jeopardize his work.

This is who he really is too.

And it is a thousand times worse than trying to run off one of her suitors with nasty drunken insinuation. This is cowardice. He cannot tell her that he loves her. He can hold her body close and take the sympathy and compassion she freely pours from her good heart, but he cannot tell her he loves her.

He'd only lose the work and she too then.

And then who would he be?

The most desperate thing about this, and he could grind his teeth at the irony, at the sheer Greek ethos of it... is that the one person to whom this would all make perfect sense has just died.

Which brings him back, with that shooting pain behind his eye, to the beginning of it all.

Does he think his mother is really, finally, and thankfully, at peace?

Does he believe in the balm of everlasting spirit?

He wants to. God, how he wants to. But all he can seem to muster any wonder for at all in life is the beating, earthy mystery that is the human heart.

He _wants _Meg's spirit to echo on...

Beyond illness, beyond literature even. But he knows frailty so well. Has made friends with it. Has gotten down on his knees and sniffed at its last breath on bitter mornings. And therefore has a hard time making the leap from his mother's cold, blue body, perhaps being dissected even now, to seraphim trumpeting in heaven.

And then, at last, his body, his mind, and his heart came to rest.

And he let his breath go.

He pulled away from her, keeping his hands locked on her hips, and lifted his face to hers.

She smiled a little.

He's so close to her. He can see the small lines around her eyes and lips. The crease between her brows that has deepened with her current worry.

She thumb-rubbed his tears away.

She's... beautiful.

She cocked her head slightly and looked him, "What happened to your jaw?"

"Opened a cab door into it. You may have heard that I got a little drunk the other night."

There was a knock at the door then. They broke away from one another as he called out, "Come in."

"The coast is clear. Everyone's left. How's things in here?" asked Lewis as he looked between them.

"Everything's fine," said Eames.

"Anything I can do for you, Bobby?"

"No. You head on back to the shop. Those guys'll be doing everything wrong without you."

He looked doubtful. "You sure?"

"Yeah. Go."

"What are you going to do?" asked Alex then.

"I need to sort through her things before Rick leaves. I've got a room over at the Comfort Inn. We need to see a lawyer in the area in the morning, and then take Rick and Stacy to the airport."

"I... could stay. Help you out," she offered.

"No. But, thank you. I need to do it on my own."

She nodded. "All right, I'll ride home with Lewis then."

And he nodded.

She looked at him curiously for a moment then leaned down and kissed his cheek before turning to leave.

"Get some rest, Bobby."

"I will. And... Thanks again. Both of you."

She crossed to where Lewis held the door for her and paused.

"Hey, Lewis, what the hell happened to Bobby's jaw?" she asked suddenly.

Any other day Bobby would have laughed out loud. Eames loved the surprise attack.

Lewis looked quickly at Bobby and then down, "He... tripped. On a stair. When I took him home the other night."

She glanced back at Bobby then, "You should be more careful."

He nodded. "I plan on it."

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**H**onestly, she'd delayed arrival as long as she could.

On the top ten list of things most hated by Alex Eames, small talk with rich people while wearing heels ranked pretty damn high, as did anything lacy, the color pink, and sushi.

Oh, and listening to Phillip Glass.

Odds were high she'd have to face all of the above during the course of the evening.

She strode out along the wide central Plaza around which Lincoln Center was spread, and tugged a bit self consciously at the collar of the ivory cashmere evening coat she'd bought that morning.

Her stockinged legs were cold.

She passed the splashing fountain under a clear evening sky, and turned toward the high rounded arches that fronted the grand home of The Metropolitan Opera.

Once at the door she presented her invitation and handed her badge and purse to security for examination, then walked over to check her coat.

She adjusted her wrap around her shoulders and turned to go toward the crowd at the bar but caught sight of herself in a long mirror first.

Not bad.

The simple ankle-length champagne-colored gown shimmered slightly, though clung and dove perhaps a bit more than she would have liked. Stupid plastic Barneys salesgirls could talk you into buying The Brooklyn Bridge.

Her hair was what it always was, and her darker lipstick the only change in the usual line-up on her face. She wore no jewelry but the tiny diamond chips, three on one side, two on the other, and then the chocolatey decadent wrap around her shoulders.

She'd never been a vain woman, but this sumptuous fabric did make her deep browns pop and shine.

Well, there she is. The best she can do.

She turned from the mirror and looked about the vast hobnobbing lobby. Tuxes, diamonds, fur, botox, silicon, and eyebrows shaped into perfect Stepford arches.

She really wanted a drink.

She struck out for the bar.

"Alex!" she heard midway there.

She turned to see Deakins in a rental, and Sylvia, lovely in beaded black. Bobby in his classic custom-made, and the Carvers.

She sighed.

The Peacock Councillor, as she liked to call him on especially snarky days, was wearing one of those strange tux-like costumes that one only saw on actors at television-broadcast awards shows. In California.

And there was his wife. Cynthia Gillum-Carver. Predictably glorious columned in an emerald green one-shouldered toga-like thing. Her long throat wrapped in thousands of strands of amber beads, her hair piled elegantly high.

She looked to be nine feet tall. A goddess on a mountain.

"Evening, all," said Alex with a smile as she joined them.

"Alex, you're late," chided Sylvia with a smile.

"Did I miss anything?"

"No," said the Captain shortly, as he tugged at his collar.

She felt Bobby's eyes on her but turned to Cynthia.

"Detective Eames, you look so sweet this evening," she cooed.

"Thank you, Cynthia. And you look stunning as usual. You too, Sylvia."

Sylvia laughed, "Your Captain thinks its too sexy."

"Impossible," smiled Bobby.

"I just said it dipped a little low in the back is all," Deakins defended himself.

"Something about you though, Alex..." mused the goddess thoughtfully. "_What_ is it?... Ah, I know. Like one of those fairy books... A sprite! You look just like a woodland sprite!"

She narrowed her eyes as she heard Bobby cough suddenly into his hand.

"Well, I..."

Cynthia turned to her elegant spouse, "Doesn't she look _just_ like a little fairy sprite, Ron? A true _woodland nymph?"_

"She looks lovely," commented Carver gallantly.

"Like a _sprite_. How did you put it together?"

"Well, the tricky part was finding an evening bag big enough for my gun."

There was the merest breath of caught-aback pause before they all laughed.

She smiled tightly.

"You know," said Alex, "I am going to get a drink. Could I get one for anyone else?"

They all demurred.

"I'd love another glass of champagne, since you're going," said Cynthia sweetly.

And she handed Alex her empty.

Alex nodded and started off.

"I'll come with you," said Bobby through pursed lips, "I'd like a refresher myself."

She listened to him chuckle as he trailed behind her.

"Gin and tonic and a glass of champagne, please," she ordered when she got to the bar.

She felt him arc down over her from behind.

"You look amazing," he whispered into her ear.

She turned to his smile and intense eyes, and lifted a brow.

"No time for compliments, I have to go scamper under a red-dotted mushroom."

"Club soda with a twist," called Bobby then.

They gathered their glasses and returned to the group.

"Part of the proceeds from the evening will endow a scholarship at Julliard in Christine Larkin's name," she heard Carver comment.

"What's the status of the Arano case on your end, councillor?" asked Bobby.

"We're still wrangling with the feds. They don't want to give us anything."

"Ron, no talking shop this evening," chided his wife. "This is _the _Annual Opera Gala."

They all understood the unspoken message within this statement. The Carvers, beautiful power couple that they were, needed to move on to rub elbows with those far more important than their current circle.

"Eames," said Goren then, "There's a spectacular contemporary sculpture gallery at the end of the hall. Would you like to come look?"

_Not really._

"Sounds great."

"Anyone care to join us?"

"Ron, we really should go say hello to the Levitts."

"Sylvia, let's go up and find our table."

Sylvia smiled indulgently, "Your shoes?"

He nodded.

The group broke up.

"Do I really have to look at contemporary sculpture?" she whined, as he took her arm and wound through the crowd.

"Yes."

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**H**e'd met plenty of women while stationed in Europe.

Dark arty types, free-spirited dancers, bright students. Sophisticates and working girls. The requisite trips to Amsterdam with the guys.

He'd even fallen in love. The director of a gallery in Berlin. She'd challenged him intellectually and satisfied him sexually. He'd hungered for her when they were apart. His head a thousand miles into the clouds, he planned on proposing. Like in a novel. She must have sensed it was coming and had let him down as gently as she could. She'd decided to reunite with her former girlfriend, she told him.

Worldly though he longed to be, it had taken some time to overcome that.

He pocketed his hands and stood back as she gazed at a bronze piece before her. He let his eyes play subtly over her body.

She'd be braless under that dress. The thin spaghetti straps probably crossed in the center of her back under the wrap.

_His wrap._

He'd been out walking one Sunday after returning from Carmel Ridge, the weather unseasonably warm, and had seen it in a window in one of those places in Tribeca. It was just... her. He'd gone in and bought it right away. Wrote a note. Had it sent. Not certain why. They hadn't done gifts with one another before. An impulse.

He walked casually behind her. No panty lines, but the slyest hint of a garter belt.

He turned away at that, took a sip of his club soda, and walked to the next piece.

This was going to be harder than he thought. And winced. More _difficult_, he amended.

She squinted a little at the buffed metal before her.

"The digestive system," she proclaimed. "It looks like the digestive system."

He crossed back to her.

"Eames, you're being too literal. What does it make you _feel_?"

She looked up at him, "Hungry."

"Eames..." he began, but was interrupted when the gong sounded the next phase of the evening.

She grinned. "Saved by the bell. You'll have to educate me later."

"I wasn't trying to..."

He gave up and followed her toward the crush at the elevators.

The grand dinner and entertainment were to be held in the large hall upstairs, roughly above the dress circle of the great opera hall below. It was not a place known to the general public. But admission to this room for this annual charity event was a highly sought-after invite by those in the know. Goren figured a table ran anywhere from twenty to fifty grand. If you had the connections to get one.

They eased toward the bank of six elevators taking groups of their well-heeled compatriots to the lush dinner, dancing, and entertainment above.

_Why does he love her?_ he wondered as they inched forward in the crowd.

The decision to not tell her does not preclude him from thinking about it. Ruminating on it. Like any other puzzle he's faced. There was the obvious, of course: Her incredible stability. Her absolute honor. Her patient, intelligent way. Any family therapist off the street could tell him the attraction a man of his volatility, and with his erratic childhood would have for such a woman.

She is not gorgeous. Her body not voluptuous. But he is drawn to her. More so since his heartfelt self-admission. A physical attraction that once simmered ignored on the back burner was creeping forward by the minute. The dress, the environment, all the recent emotional events in his life making him especially susceptible.

And, he smiled to himself, she makes him laugh.

Just as she'd predicted he would when they first fought four years ago.

'Your first fight is the one you'll always have,' his mother used to say.

She was absolutely unimpressed by show. By class. By wealth. He'd, in fact, taken this for his model in such things as he'd had to fight his own temptation at times to be slightly dazzled by brilliance.

With Eames, the heart was the thing. As it should be for all. And this humbled him.

So in the words of literature, as nod to his mother even, 'He loved her in spite of himself.'

The elevator opened for them at last, and they moved in with the crowd. He pressed against the back mirrored wall, and took a calming breath as she was pressed against him. He looked down just as her wrap fell off her shoulder to reveal a creamy expanse of bare back, the crossed straps of his imagination just where he thought they'd be.

He looked a little closer, then lifted his chin and grinned.

He caught her eye in the mirrored doors before them and nodded at her answering twinkle and smile of understanding.

But once out of the elevator, she pulled him aside.

"Bobby," she whispered. "Why would FBI be here?"

He glanced over his shoulder, "You spotted some?"

She nodded, "I saw the shoes in the elevator. White guy, early forties, bad tux, military haircut."

"Maybe there are dignitaries here?"

"Come on you two! We found our table!" they heard Sylvia call out to them then.

They nodded and followed her down onto the floor.

"It certainly is pink," observed Alex as they wound through the hall.

And it was. Pink flowers, pink candles, pink linen...

"Detective Goren?"

They turned as one to an elegant older woman in black beside them.

"Dr. Shendrick, hello."

"I'd heard you were to be invited this evening."

"Dr. Shendrick, this is my partner Alex Eames."

"Nice to meet you, Dr. Shendrick."

"Detective," nodded the lady graciously. "I wonder if you two have seen the special display yet this evening?"

"Display?" asked Bobby, looking toward Alex.

She shrugged her shoulders, "We've only just come up. We were looking at the sculpture downstairs."

"Oh, yes, that is a very fine collection. Allow me?"

They nodded and followed the psychiatrist to a large glassed-in table spot-lit before a wall of shelves nearby. They peered in.

"This is the planned extension for the opera hall," Shendrick explained proudly as they looked over the model and plans spread out beside it. "We break ground next week. It's very exciting. This evening is the culmination of years of fund raising."

"Very impressive," Bobby observed. "It looks like they'll have to alter and rebuild almost the entire backstage area."

"They will," nodded the doctor. "It's a huge undertaking. But we'll be able to have a whole herd of elephants for Aida in Spring two thousand seven!"

"Well, that is impressive," agreed Alex.

Bobby walked around the table toward the bookshelves to examine the other side of the model.

"It's a lovely idea that they plan a scholarship in Miss Larkins' name," said Alex then.

The doctor hesitated a moment, "Yes. Isn't it. Well, I must go join my table. I hope you have a lovely time this evening, detectives. The entire music community is grateful to you for apprehending Christine's murderer."

And she was off.

"Eames," said Bobby then. She looked up at him and saw his 'come here now' face and came right around to join him.

"What's up?"

"_Look_."

She followed his eyes to the shelves behind them, and up past rows of displayed opera books and autographed music scores, to see specially built slots at the top of the cases filled with rows of... red mailing tubes.

One was missing.

Her eyes widened and she turned to meet his gaze again.

"Plans," he said quietly. "For the opera house."


	14. Fourteen

The appetizer had been sushi, of course.

But had been followed up by a heaven-sent pallette-clearing sorbet.

The salad and main course had been delicious.

The desert arrived sprouted with sculptural pieces of chocolate in the shapes of musical notes.

Is there a special fork for that?

Bobby had eaten all with relish. She slid the remainder of her dessert over to him, and picked up her cup of coffee while playing her eyes over the crowd. She nudged him a little as she took a sip.

"_There_," she mumbled, with a pointed look.

He looked up and followed her gaze to the FBI agent she'd spotted in the elevator earlier and nodded.

"_Alex?_"

She turned her head to the handsome man standing behind her. "David. Hello. How've you been?"

"Better," he acknowledged. "You look wonderful."

"Thank you. You remember my partner."

Drew turned to Bobby. "Detective Goren."

Bobby sighed and stood up. "I'd like to apologize for the other night, Mr. Drew," he extended his hand.

Drew shook it and nodded .

"Alex, the orchestra's just fired up. Would you care to dance?"

"That would be nice," she smiled and stood to join him, as the gentlemen at the table stood as well.

As they sat again, Cynthia watched the couple move to the floor.

"Well, well," she observed. "Quite a catch. They say he's going to move into a solo career now. And he's awfully good looking."

Bobby watched them dance a moment, then excused himself.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

As he exited the men's room, he took a visual sweep of the room. The large dance orchestra in the bandstand was swinging _I'm Beginning To See the Light_ as couples crowded the floor.

His eyes rested on a small woman in beige. She danced easily to the standard. Her partner spun her then and she laughed a little.

He circled to his left a bit, watching people now, and there he was.

Eames was right. The FBI agent in the bad tux standing against a wall silently observing the goings on. The real thing. Definitely not hired security for the evening.

He clicked his eyes incrementally around the perimeter of the room and spotted another. This one blonde. Both eyeing the room. If there were a dignitary present trying to enjoy himself and lay low, there should be a body man somewhere. A point guy whose eyes must remain on the protectee at all times. Goren continued his scrutiny. No body man that he could make. So, no special guest.

Then why were FBI watching this crowd on this night?

As he digested all this, he moved once more toward the display shown them earlier by Dr. Shendrick. He gazed down at the model again. The planned extension was extremely ambitious. He looked at the set of plans artfully laid out as well. He bent in to study them more closely. They were blueprints... schematic drawings.

He began his inner journey then.

Like climbing stairs.

Absorb a fact, master it, speculate on its outcome, then take that next step. Perhaps to a landing where the choices became waiting closed doors...

Pause, remain still then. Think out the variables...

A bigger opera house meant more people on stage. More people on stage meant grander productions, which meant more people wanting to come to performances. But The Met regularly sold out and there was no planned expansion of the audience area...

So, take a step back.

Some times the stairs spiraled or doubled back.

The red mailing tubes. Actually, cardboard holders for rolled plans. For storage.

Presumably these here held duplicate sets of the plans laid before him. Or perhaps detailed aspects of certain elements... If Christine had the missing tube... then Arano had it when he left her place that night...

Had he wanted the tube and killed her for it? Their relationship had seemed sincere...

Back to the plans before him... Details, measurements, entrances, exits...

_Oh_.

He swallowed and looked up.

_Christ._

His eyes swept the room again.

_Jesus Christ._

And then he met her eyes. She was no longer smiling. She was wearing that 'come here now' look over Drew's shoulder. And if that wasn't clear enough, she lifted her index finger and subtly beckoned him toward her.

He crossed toward her, consciously keeping his breath even, their eyes locked...

He tapped Drew on the shoulder. "May I cut in?"

Drew turned to him with an annoyed expression.

"Uh... That would be nice," interjected Alex, before things got ugly. "Thank you, David."

David looked at her, nodded, and gracefully bowed out.

He took her in his arms and slowly rotated her, trying to look out for the FBI.

"Bobby..."

"Eames..." They began at once.

"You first."

"Bobby, I'm damn sure I just saw one of those guys in the photos. One of Arano's men..."

"Where?..."

"Behind me, to the left, the second table..."

He rotated her again to look.

"He's not there now."

"What have you got?" she asked.

"Eames, those plans..." he began.

But the music ended then and the dancers' applause drowned him out. He grabbed her hand and walked toward the archway which led to the elevators.

"What the hell is going on?" she whispered.

"I'm not sure... but it's clearer.. Alex, we've got to get everyone out of here," he told her, as he looked over his shoulder.

"What? _Why?_"

"Look, I want you to go down and get Deakins up here."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to try to make contact with the FBI without making a scene. We don't want panic."

"_Bobby?_" the question was in her voice.

He looked down at her and placed his hands on her shoulders, "Eames, _those plans_..."

She furrowed her brow briefly, and then he watched it dawn in her eyes, "_Oh, my God!_"

He nodded somberly, "Deakins."

And she was off.

He kept an eye on her determined progress through the crowd as he casually made his way toward the nearest FBI agent.

Surely there were contingencies, he prayed. Ways of getting people out. The elevators would be problematic. There were many elderly in the crowd. The women in long dresses and heels. There must be stairs. He looked about for an exit sign for a moment... and then back toward Deakins' table.

Wait, where was Alex?

He stopped and visually followed the trajectory she should have taken across the floor. She wasn't anywhere along it.

He took a breath, and swallowed the bitter taste of adrenalin in his mouth as he scouted for her...

And then spotted her brown wrap on the steps toward the elevator archway.

_Shit._

He retraced his steps and hurried over to the archway, passed through it, and looked both ways. Someone stepped from behind him then and placed the nuzzle of a gun in his lower back. He froze.

"Walk straight ahead, Goren." said a voice from behind him.

He did as he was instructed.

"Where is Detective Eames?" he asked.

"No talking. Up there through that door. Now."

The band struck up again: _Straighten Up and Flight Right_

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The moment the heavy fire door closed behind him a hood was dropped over his head and handcuffs clicked on his wrists before him.

The air felt cooler. He'd seen a cinder block wall before all went dark.

"Eames!" he called, and got punched in the kidneys for the effort.

Through his gasping he heard her call him, "Bobby!"

And the sound of violence, then silence.

"_Alex!" _he yelled and was hit again.

"Climb!" a voice behind him ordered.

He tried to gain control of his breathing as he began to ascend the stairs before him.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Alex..."

_No, no, no..._

"Alex."

She tried to open her eyes.

"Alex, honey, you've got to wake up."

She squinted up into Goren's face then.

"Did you just call me honey?"

"I had to wake you up."

She tried to lift her head.

"Oh man, that bastard hit my head hard," she remembered. She tried to lift her hand but encountered resistance. "_What.._."

"We're handcuffed," he told her. "You've really got to wake up, Alex, I'm sorry."

She nodded and got her elbow under her and sat up to look around.

"Where are we?"

"A utility room of some kind."

"How long?"

"Half an hour."

She surveyed their situation. They were sitting on a cold cement floor, their wrists handcuffed together on either side of a vertically running pipe of some kind.

She blinked her eyes for focus and looked over at him.

"Are you with me?" he checked.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"Okay, we've got just under an hour left... I think."

"Left until what?"

He turned his head pointedly. She followed his eyes...

And blinked a little.

"Holy. Mother. Of. God. Is that what I think it is?"

He nodded.

A bomb.

"There are a least four of them. All male. The two we know and two others. Eames, they've got another bomb set somewhere else in the facility besides this one."

"Do... do you know how to turn it off?" she asked him wide-eyed.

He smiled ruefully, "No, I never had any munitions training that sophisticated."

She turned to him open-mouthed, "Your... your little brain computer cannot by empty _now_! Come on, didn't you read a article _somewhere_?"

"We can't reach it anyway," he observed.

Her mind was reeling.

"I've tried yelling for help. We seem to be too far away. They've taken my cell and gun."

"When's 'the good news'?"

"I've been looking at this pipe," he went on.

She swallowed and nodded mutely.

"I'm guessing it's for steam heat..."

"It looks... old," she offered lamely.

"It joins here," he indicated. "If we could maybe bend it, or somehow detach it..."

"Maybe we could get out to warn them..."

He looked at her, "I don't really think it'll work, Alex, I'll be honest with you. And it's going to take a lot of physical effort, which your ribs will not appreciate..."

"Bobby, there are three hundred people down there dancing to the Chattanooga Choo Choo right now."

He nodded, "Okay."

They turned in to the pipe between them, sitting up on their knees.

"Let's work from this side. You're not injured on your right, and I'm left handed."

"Sounds like a plan."

They lifted their wrists and pressed the few links connecting the cuffs just above the pipe join.

"Let's pull first," he instructed, "on the count of three..."

They both pulled with all their might, but only succeeded, by virtue of Goren's greater strength, to jerk Alex hard into the pipe.

"_Ow!_"

"God, Alex, are you okay?"

"I am not really having a very good year in the personal safety department," she acknowledged.

"That's not going to work," Bobby stated the obvious.

She nodded.

"Let's try grinding the chain back and forth in the same place, maybe the friction..."

They positioned themselves again and began a rhythmic sawing motion at the pipe. They were rewarded by a few small surface scratches and a terrible grating noise.

They continued on in this way for awhile.

He eyed her. A sheen of sweat dampened the hair in her eyes and there were angry red marks on her wrist where the cuff chaffed.

"Let's take a break for a minute," he suggested.

She looked up at him and they stopped. The only noise in the room, their heavy breathing.

"You okay?" he asked.

"After labor, this is cake."

He smiled , "Back to it then."

And they resumed grinding at the pipe again.

"The doctor said... you had complications. How come you never told me?" he asked after a moment of silent work.

She kept her eye on the deepening scratches, "You never asked."

"I am now."

"I need to breathe a minute, Bobby."

He nodded and they stopped.

She kept her head down, then looked up at him again.

"Okay, ready."

The began again. Back and forth. Back and forth...

"The baby..." she began quietly. "I labored and labored, but he was big, and was in posterior presentation..."

"He... got stuck?"

"Pretty much. As hard as I tried, I couldn't make him move any further..."

He nodded.

They continued sawing.

"They kept telling me to push, anyway... but finally it became clear."

"Did things... get dangerous?"

"Yes."

"For you or the baby?"

"At first him. Then me. Finally, they went in with forceps to extract him... but there was tearing and bleeding that they didn't catch right away..."

They stopped again by silent consent to breathe once more.

"They had to... revive him?"

She looked up at him and nodded, then looked away...

"But he was okay after they got him breathing."

"And you?"

"The blood loss. My blood pressure bottomed out..."

She lifted her wrist, indicating her readiness to begin again.

"Ugh," she groaned. "This is the last time I spend seven hundred dollars on a dress, I can tell you that. Deakins can just kiss my ass."

"It's a beautiful dress."

She lifted her eyes to catch his, but he was focused on the grinding before them.

They worked quietly, the grinding noise scratching on.

"Bobby, why were you such a jackass to David Drew?"

"I thought you'd accepted my apology for that."

"I did. Now I want to know why."

He was silent as they continued to huff and saw.

"Did you write the poem before or after the baby was born?" he asked instead.

"What, the Bobby truth game only works one way?"

"Maybe," he allowed. "Do you need to stop again?"

"Yes," she breathed out in relief. "And... after."

He nodded.

"Don't you want to know how I figured you out?"

"Not really," she said, as she rested her forehead on the cool pipe for a minute.

"I'm surprised. Usually you're the most curious person I know," he observed.

A long pause ensued.

"Fine!" she grouched, "Dazzle me."

And they began sawing again.

"The first clue," he began with relish, "was your books, of course. Crime, literature, the usual stuff. But, then, I saw, also very heavy on poetry."

"Brilliant."

"There was the Millay thesis you told Mom about. And you knew Stevenson."

"Uh hunh."

"Then there was the poem itself. You referred to 'shadows' in it. You used the same allusion when you interrogated Drew."

She lifted her brows cynically at that.

"Yeah, that one's a bit of stretch, I'll admit. But then the writer was anonymous, which was definitely a mark of you, ironically enough. And it was an elegy—a mourning."

She said nothing to that.

"But, tonight, when I looked down in the elevator and saw that tiny tattoo on your right shoulder blade, I knew for certain."

"I need a break!"

They rested again.

She looked up at him, "You always check your fly with your hand when we transition. When you stand up, when we meet someone, and so on... it's your only gesture of trepidation."

He blinked in surprise.

"Well, I needed something back on you!" she grumped.

"Ready?" he asked.

She nodded and they began sawing at the pipe again. Bobby looked down at the blood dripping off her wrists now.

"I was jealous," he said quietly.

She kept her eyes fixed on their moving hands.

"That why you checked out my ass in the sculpture gallery downstairs?"

He glanced quickly at her then, her eyes were still downcast.

"I'm... sorry about that," he said softly, "And, yes."

"I didn't sleep with him, Bobby."

He looked up at her.

"I almost did. He saw me as...beautiful, I guess. And, to be wanted again... I don't know."

"But... but you didn't..."

"It would have been... wrong. For many reasons. And... well, it hasn't been that long since the baby...not long enough, anyway...physically, I mean."

They worked silently for a few moments, and broke to rest again.

"How much time is left?" she asked.

He looked at his watch. "Fifteen minutes. Let's try some more."

She nodded and they reached their joined hands up to work at the pipe again.

"Do you think we're going to die?" she asked after a moment.

"Let's not..."

"Right. So, should we discuss the times we've dreamed about each other now?"

"You first," he said.

"No way. There's always the case, I suppose..."

"I think we should try bending the pipe again, now that we've worn a dent in it."

The stopped grinding, and began pulling.

"It didn't budge," she observed when at last they stopped.

"Back to it then."

The sawed back and forth in long silence then...

"Bobby, I can't... I need to rest..."

He looked up at her drawn face, and down where the blood from her wrist had spilled down onto her dress.

"Alex," he told her gently, "it's no use..."

She nodded and sighed.

They let their hands drop then. He scooted as close to her as he could. She brought her forehead down onto his shoulder.

"Bobby..."

"Shhh..." he whispered. "In my dream, you are nude and so beautiful... I get to have you... and the work."

She snorted a little a that, "In mine, you choose me over the work."

He smiled. "Did we get to be naked at least?"

"A lady never tells."

He kissed her head softly then.

"How much time now?" she asked.

"Five minutes."


	15. Fifteen

Perhaps one day very far into the future, she could've made a Lassie joke about it.

Though, ultimately, the way things played out, that, of course, would not happen. It could never become anything to joke about.

Nevertheless it was the dogs that found them.

Bomb sniffers bursting into the room only lacking heroic red capes, dragging helmeted and armored FBI behind them.

An agent ran over to unlock the handcuffs, as two others pounced on the device requiring immediate expertise, as yet another hustled them out of the room.

"They've got another one somewhere!" Goren shouted as he scooped his arm around her waist, "There's another bomb!"

It would be difficult to remember the details of what followed in years to come. Except in the horrific Dali-esque dreams that happened often enough.

They ran down staircase after staircase, always more to descend, as they rounded a landing. She wasn't aware of her high heels, or her ribs. Bobby half-dragging her, the agent yelling instructions. At some point, she must have realized that the bomb in their little utility room had been diffused. Surely the five minutes had passed...

At last they tore through the lobby, skirting the digestive system sculpture that was supposed to make her think, and burst out onto the wide plaza with the fountain under the stars.

Her first impression there was of the sea. The sea at nighttime when only the white foam of the waves is set aglow by moonlight. All else being dark.

She puckered her brow and saw then that the white foam was only the men from the Gala standing in their white tuxedo shirtsleeves, and the dark sea the women beside them wearing their gallantly forfeited dinner jackets.

"Goren! Eames!"

They focused to see Deakins gesturing toward them and hurried over.

"Are you all right?"

"We're fine." Alex wasn't sure if it were she or Bobby who had spoken.

"Blakely was at the dinner—that FBI agent who took Arano." They nodded their remembrance. "He came and found me. Said you two had been taken and then ordered an evacuation. What the hell is going on? They've got Emergency Services and Red Cross on the way, and have dog teams sweeping all the nearby buildings..."

"Arano got plans for the opera house from Christine Larkins. She must have stolen them for him..." Goren explained.

"So this whole thing was terrorist organized?" checked the Captain. "Jesus, no wonder they won't let Carver have Arano. How the hell did that guy talk Larkins into that?"

Goren shrugged, "She was depressed. Had been reading her father's political work. Rebelling against her life as she knew it. She was... susceptible. Love does strange things to people. Can make them go against everything they thought they wanted..."

He looked over at Alex then. She stood frozen staring up at the building they'd just fled.

"I can't believe it made her want to blow people up..." doubted Deakins.

Bobby removed his jacket and walked over to Alex and wrapped it gently around her shoulders.

"Perhaps he convinced her it was just a facility target. That people wouldn't be hurt."

"Well, he and his guys couldn't have picked a better night to wipe out New York's elite."

"Do you think they found the other bomb?" asked Alex then.

And in a flash, she had her answer.

She heard,'Oh my God!'shouted in a male voice first... And then the explosion.

Screams must have erupted from many. Not that they could be heard as the entire Southwest corner of the magnificent opera house began to collapse upon itself

The night darkened further then as dust, smoke, and debris sealed them from the moonlight and caked over the glass globes of the streetlights. Some fell to their knees or worse, as the vibrations of the impact rolled onto the plaza. Others with greater presence of mind began running in the opposite direction.

Her only memory later of that was of the echo. The imitative mock of the blast as it rimmed around the steel and glass canyon formed by the surrounding buildings.

And then silence.

And then sirens.

Bobby began yelling about debris. About how it would start to fall soon. They had to get as far away as they could.

Alex moved as quickly as she could among the shaken people, taking an arm here, helping someone up there, urging movement, barking harshly when needed.

Eventually they all were moving as a herd with predators at their heels. Running toward the northeastern corner of the plaza, it being the furthest point they could visually identify. Once there, they all huddled under an overhang, each wondering in their turn if it might be next to come down.

And then the pelting debris. Like hail first, then drums. Followed by suffocating black dust and cinders, glass, pebbled concrete, and God only knew what else.

She found her way to Bobby then and he wrapped his arms around her and turned his face into her hair. She buried her head in his chest and listened then to grown men and women cry as the black wave crashed over them.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Dawn did not break brightly.

A persistent lightening of the thick gray dusty fog was the only sign that night had passed.

He walked among desks and chairs handing out bottles of water brought by Emergency Relief. The Red Cross was establishing themselves, interviewing and collecting information from the party attendees onto clipboards. Blankets had been dispensed. They had taken refuge through a broken window of The Metropolitan Temporary Employment Agency across from the end of the plaza.

Cold air streamed through the broken glass. People huddled closely for warmth. He looked up then, spotting a lone erect figure standing before a shattered window staring up at the opera house. His eyes followed her fixed stare.

The building had not collapsed entirely. The dogs and bomb squad had reached the utility room bomb,_ their bomb_, in time. But a good fifth of the building was down.

He approached her quietly.

"Would you like a bottle of water, Dr. Shendrick?"

She did not break her gaze to look at him.

"Do we know about the men inside?" she asked.

"Not yet," he admitted.

"How many were in there?" she asked.

"Ten agents and two dogs. They've got teams over there now checking the structure and looking."

"How could anyone with a conscience do this?" she asked quietly.

"Anyone with a conscience couldn't."

"And yet people justify many things, awful things, to serve their consciences."

"True."

"You must see a lot of that in your work."

"As you must in yours."

"Such a waste..."she went on. "Horrible things have been done, _horrible_, and all for nothing. Those men could be dead. And she's dead too... we can't even blame her now... I'm sure those men have wives and children too..."

"We haven't given up hope."

"All for nothing... you can't live with something like this... you can't... _all for nothing_..."

"Dr. Shendrick, I think you need to sit down and have some water."

A struggling caught his attention then. He turned to see an older man on his knees gripping his arm. A woman, presumably his wife, leaning over him.

"Asa! Oh, my God! I think he's having a heart attack!"

Eames was by their side, "Everyone, quick! Search the desk drawers for aspirin!" she yelled. "Someone get an EMT over here!"

He hurried over as Eames popped aspirin someone had found into the man's mouth. An EMT team was there behind him then, loading the elderly gentleman onto a gurney and rolling him out.

"That was Asa Levitt," said a voice beside him. He turned to see Cynthia Gillum-Carver at his side, her elegance now faded, fear and shock etched into the fine lines around her eyes.

"He is the head of the finest publishing house in the city. How could this have happened?"

He watched then as her tears began to fall and placed a hand on her shoulder, "It's going to be all right," he told her.

"They won't let me call my children yet," she sobbed.

"They will soon. The word has been released that everyone at the Gala survived," he looked around then, and spotting Carver called him over to minister to his wife, "Councillor!"

He turned to Alex then, "Have you had any water yet?" he asked.

She cocked her brow, "Have you?"

He sighed and reached for a couple of bottles and handed her one. They unscrewed the caps and began to drink as they surveyed the situation around them.

There were the expected injuries. Cuts, lacerations. Triage was taking place to prioritize. Those with broken bones or worse being taken out first.

Sylvia approached them then.

"Still no word on the agents inside," she reported in an undertone. "But it doesn't look good."

And as if in response to this they turned to watch then as new search teams entered the plaza with different dogs straining on their leads.

"The cadaver dogs," said Alex softly.

"Listen up, folks," they heard Agent Blakely address the crowd of survivors then. "We understand how shaken up you are and that you want to get home to your families. If you have already made your statement to a relief worker, could you please come forward for a final medical check over. We will be taking some home and some to area hospitals, depending on your status. Also, you may go ahead and use your cell phones now, or the phones on the desks to call loved ones."

"What's the word on the agents inside?" someone called out from the crowd.

"We don't know anything yet," replied the stoic agent.

And then the shuffle of the worn, injured, and dusty people began.

Bobby and Alex dropped to the back of the room then and found chairs at desks to sit down. A knowledgeable observer would have noticed that they'd automatically elected to sit as they always did at their own desks at One Police Plaza, facing one another.

Neither one was aware of this in the moment, however.

"You should call your folks," he said absently.

She nodded but made no move to do so.

He looked down at her clasped hands on the desk before her, taking note of the dried blood at her wrists peeking out from under the rolled cuffs of his jacket.

"You should have someone look at your wrists."

She nodded, "Not really a priority right now."

He nodded his agreement.

"How long do you think?" she repeated her question from the utility room earlier but to a different purpose.

"To search that ruin safely? Could be days."

She nodded this time.

"I guess this gives Arano a motive for the murder," she mused. "Once he got the plans, he had no more use for her."

"Maybe," allowed Bobby. "If only I'd been able to put it together sooner... If only we..."

"Bobby, there's no point in blaming yourself..." Alex reproved.

And Bobby's eyes narrowed.

"What?" asked Alex.

"_Eames_..."

She did not answer, knowing that he required silence at this stage. And simply watched as his eyes darted about, unknowable scenarios playing through his head. She tried to tune in as she sometimes could but she needed more, which, of course, he then offered...

"Shendrick... she did nine eleven counselling..."

Alex nodded, "She probably knew better than anyone the impact an event like this could have on people's lives..."

"Blame... _and now we can't even blame her, she's dead_... And, _conscience_...that's what she just said..." he lifted his eyes to her's then.

Alex felt her heartbeat accelerate as they connected—a live wire invisibly extended between them.

"If she'd been able to figure out any part of what Christine had been involving herself with..."

"She said no one could live with conscience... that it had been for nothing..."added Bobby.

"You don't think...?"

Bobby stood up, "Where is she? She was here awhile ago?" he vainly scoured the room with his eyes.

Alex hopped up as well and they separated to physically search for Dr. Shendrick.

Meeting finally at the front organization desk, Alex told him, "No sign of her."

"Agent Blakely," demanded Bobby then, "Has Dr. Shendrick been released yet?"

Blakely referred to his clipboard, "Yes. Just awhile ago. She had no injuries. Is there a problem?"

Goren turned to Alex then, "Where's Deakins?"

"I don't know, should I go look?"

"No time! Come on!"

And they hurried out onto the street.

Throngs of city vehicles crowded the area. A rope had been set up to corral multitudes of press. Bobby and Alex ran up to a blue and white.

"We need to get to fifth avenue now!" he ordered the uniform.

"Excuse me?" queried the officer, "Who the hell are you?"

"_Badge_. I need my fucking badge... _Alex!_"

She nodded and dug into the breast pocket of his coat, withdrew it, and tossed it to him.

They hopped in and were on their way in a moment then, the siren blaring...

"Would it have been premeditated?" she wondered aloud.

"Probably not. She might've assumed she could talk Larkins out of something and then things escalated."

"She would have arrived at the apartment after Arano left then."

"We'll check the security tape from across the road, maybe it'll show something," he suggested.

She nodded, "Then she moved her to the park, wrapped in the comforter. To make it look like a mugging. She must have been too rattled to take the blanket away afterwards."

He nodded.

Once arrived at Shendrick's building, and after issuing an order for back up, they hurried in to the elevator.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The elevator was slow and silent.

The air within incredibly clean-seeming after the dust at Lincoln Center.

She looked up at Bobby at her side. His body was tense, his mind clearly whirling. She had an impulse then to take his hand.

She resisted.

She mulled then their time in the utility room just hours before, though it felt like an age now, and looked up at him again, wondering if his great mind had ever been able to solve the simple mystery that was between them. And had been for a long time.

It was a funny absurd sort of thought, that she'd easily, quietly, figured it out long ago when he clearly had not.

But supposed there were things even his astute mind could shelve away and ignore in the interest of self-preservation.

And then the elevator doors opened.

They walked quietly in Shendrick's deserted office then, and then passed through the open door to her inner sanctum.

Alex looked about curiously. It was elegant and modern. Crystal pieces abounded.

And then the lady herself, leaning against the front edge of her desk staring down at pink-hearted lilies bursting from a large crystal pitcher.

She looked up at them.

"Well done, Detectives," she said though there was no bitterness in her voice.

"Tell us what happened, Dr. Shendrick," commanded Bobby softly.

The lady, though covered in dust, still conveyed a fineness in her person.

She sighed...

"You began to suspect what Christine Larkins planned to do for her boyfriend..." Bobby began.

"I had no proof," the psychiatrist shrugged, "Just the instinct born of thirty-five years of practice."

"Did you confront her?" asked Alex.

"No. She called me late that night, early that morning really. I knew from our last session that she was conflicted, having reservations... something was clearly building up. She called upset. Wanted me to come over..."

"We have no record of that call on her cell or her apartment phone..." frowned Alex.

"I do not know what to say about that, Detective. I went over. It was late. I had a gun in my purse. It's registered... I was robbed once..."

"What happened when you got there?" asked Bobby.

Dr. Shendrick turned her eyes to his then and rose to her full height.

"She was manic... One moment in despair over what she'd done..."

"She told you about the plans?" asked Alex.

"That she'd stolen them, yes. Not that Arano had them. I wasn't sure about that. One moment she was wracked with guilt and the next proud and defiant about what she'd done... I told her we must go to the police. That thousands of lives could be destroyed..."

"What did Christine say to that?" asked Bobby.

"She laughed, actually... Said that all Americans were responsible for far more deaths than that... That she herself was guilty too... I begged and pleaded, but it was no use."

"So you shot her?"

"Yes. As she lay dying she told me that Arano already had the plans. I was foolishly naive when you apprehended him. I thought it had ended there. That if nothing else, the bomb hadn't been placed. I didn't think of accomplices. I am an old fool..."

"People do horrible things in the name of conscience, you said," Bobby reminded her.

"Yes."

And they paused a moment over the extraordinary irony of it all, and to wonder what definitions of guilt and conscience might apply to such a situation as this.

Alex stepped forward. "Dr. Shendrick, I am placing you under arrest for the murder of Christine Larkins...

But she wasn't fast enough.

Bobby watched then, from where he stood behind her, as the crystal pitcher suddenly whipped out like a streak in the air and impacted his partner in the side. He instinctively reached out to catch her and watched as Shendrick turned and ran into what must have been a washroom behind her.

He looked up from his place on the floor then as he held Alex in his arms...

And heard two shots ring out.


	16. Sixteen

"**O**fficer down! Officer down!"

The code shouted into the phone that normally rallied cops from across the city.

Not today.

Not when a bomb had just gone off in Lincoln Center.

There would be the usual crazies calling in to all the precincts all over the city: '_There's a bomb in that Big Mac box in the gutter on fourth_!', '_I planted that opera bomb and will blow myself up next if you don't put my ex-wife in jail_'...

And then, inevitably, tragically, the racial profiling and the ethnic fighting in the streets.

All these would have the city's finest, in all its branches, out chasing shadows for weeks. While the real work of catching the bombers, of finding the lost FBI agents trapped in the opera house rubble, and rushing a Major Case detective to the hospital before bleed-out could occur, would face delays.

Her breathing was wet and raspy.

The rib finally having snapped and punctured her lung and God knows what else, he felt certain.

Or did a bullet hit her...?

He's too old for this.

Too old for holding her in his arms again while she lays wounded and unconscious. And too old to save himself from his own feelings. Whether he's told her or not. Whether they ever make love or not. Whether he keeps his self-promise to take things no further or not are all irrelevant...

If she dies.

And a weariness fogged over him then...

He wondered if he could continue to hold her torso up, though knows he must or she might drown in the blood surely pooling in her lungs right now.

But his arms don't have the strength they once did.

He's tried talking to her.

Tried to keep her awake the way he did after the car accident, the way they distracted themselves as they sat cuffed to the pipe waiting for the bomb... but she's far beyond hearing.

He reached for her bloodied wrist then. Her skin is cold and he cannot find a pulse.

He thought of what she might say could she see them in this moment...

A joke, she'd make a joke...

What sort of joke? A joke about her ribs perhaps. He could imagine something about a 'kick me' sign taped on her back. She'd accuse him. Only, she would make it funny. And about her ribs.

He's not a funny man. That is one of the many things she does for them. _For him_.

_Fuck._

She can't die...

_He's too old for this..._

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

**O**nce they'd been at a squad Christmas thing after hours in that bar where he has to physically crane his neck to look at the waiter.

"Now you know how I feel ninety percent of the time," she'd smiled.

They'd just closed a case and were looking forward to a couple of days off. He'd offered to buy a round of drinks, 'Merry Christmas, they're on me.'

The music was pleasant though not blaring. Everyone was getting a little buzzed.

"Anyone important dies tonight they're out of luck," she'd observed from where they sat in the corner. And he'd laughed out loud at that. She'd grinned up at him on that. It wasn't a sound one got to hear very often, she told him. A golden belly laugh from The Great Goren.

He sneered at that in irritation which only made her laugh. And then watched for awhile when Valdez challenged her to darts. She'd kicked his ass which Bobby again found surprisingly amusing.

He watched the crowd for awhile, content with his life.

It wasn't perfect. He and Irene had broken up a couple of months before, his mother was giving him the silent treatment these days. But work was good. His partnership incredibly satisfying and productive.

She slid back into the booth with him then and twinkled a little.

"_That's _revved up recently," she observed.

He followed her eyes to the other side of the room to see Cruz moving in to whisper into Lampley's ear. He was bleary-eyed and flushed. She, feline in her arching toward him.

"Where do you think his hand is right now?" she leered up into his face with a smile.

He looked down at her then, noting the way the table candle caught the deep gold in her eyes. The way her lips were slightly glossy and wet. The fit of her plain emerald green cashmere.

He leaned in, much closer than they were ever want to do intentionally.

"Are you asking? Because they aren't telling."

She'd held his eyes and nodded, "Harper and Cho have been not asking and not telling for six years now over at the Five Three."

"Ames and Jackson got reprimanded, separated, and reassigned at the Three Two—their asking and telling got a little too obvious," he countered, not breaking their proximity or gaze.

She nodded and sighed, "The price can be high."

"Especially if you're stupid about it," he tossed out as he turned to take a deep drink of his beer...

A siren was sounding far away...

He looked over at her small form stretched on the opposite gurney.

She's pale and still. There are tubes and monitors.

He flinched in pain then and looked up.

"Hang in there, Detective," he heard, "It clipped your shoulder... I need to see how deep..."

A monitor alarmed then and he looked back at Eames. They were cutting her dress, splitting it down the middle, baring her. He could see the bruising on her skin and the lacerations from the crystal pitcher as they work over her...

He yelped out loud then... _What the hell? _

He looked up again at the EMT working over him.

He's been shot, he knows now.

One of those bullets must have hit him. Though he doesn't remember feeling it. Did the second hit Alex?

He turned to look at her again.

"Has she been shot?" he choked out.

"No," the EMT answered back. "The woman there suicided though."

So Shendrick's dead? That's one way to deal with a conflicted conscience, he supposed.

He turned back to Alex, still trying to puzzle out all that happened.

But only sees the spread of bruising and blood staining moonlike skin below a bare uplifted breast, and worries that she might be cold...

She'll be pissed about that dress too... seven hundred dollars...

But then he remembered that there are alarms going off.

He focused harder and saw that the movement over her had become more frantic.

"What are they doing to her?" he tried to ask...

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

**T**hat same Christmas eve at that bar, he'd watched her dance.

She'd moved smoothly to the base rhythm, her hips rolling, her arms raised, her eyes heavy-lidded. It had been one of those rare nights for setting aside the usual professional inhibitions. Just about all of them had danced, even Deakins. He himself had taken a slow turn, arms in the classic position, with most of the women present.

Even Eames. But it had felt odd and uncomfortable and much too close.

Afterwards, he'd made his excuses and left...

He was aware, as he sat up and slipped back into his torn and stained tuxedo shirt that she'd been taken directly upstairs when they'd been brought in, and that one of the EMTs—a big guy—was sitting astride her, pressing down onto her chest.

He's been stitched, his wound relatively minor, the bullet having passed through the fleshy outer part of his shoulder. He doubted Shendrick had wanted to kill him. Just wanted to buy herself time for the final act.

Relatively pain free after the meds they'd shot into his arm after the tetanus, he slid off the bed and pulled back the Emergency Room curtained partition and looked down the hall.

Deakins was approaching. He'd changed out of the dust covered tux but had a large bandage across his forehead.

He marched up to Goren.

"They're releasing you."

"Eames?"

"Still in surgery," was the terse response.

He nodded and turned away to head upstairs.

"Just a moment, Detective..."

He turned back, lifted his brow, and waited.

"Effective immediately, I am placing you on two weeks unpaid leave."

He had no response to that. _How long had she been in surgery?_

"There was your stunt with Arano in interrogation and now this... Alex _is in surgery_, Bobby! You went up there, unarmed, without permission, and did not wait for back-up. I haven't even begun to piece together what went down at that dinner, but when I do it won't be pretty for you, I'm sure." Deakins placed his hands on his hips and turned to pace for a moment. "There will be an inquiry into this Detective, you can bet your ass. Tensions are running high after the incident last night. I have no idea where your judgment has been on this one, Goren, but I have had it!"

Goren nodded quietly then turned and walked away.

He wished they hadn't given him the painkiller. He's no martyr but he doesn't like his thinking to be so fuzzy, not with things the way they are.

He continued down the long hall then, seeking the public elevator...

That Christmas eve at that bar, after he'd gone outside, he'd turned to find her standing on the cold sidewalk behind him.

"Want a ride?" she asked.

He nodded and they made their way to the SUV down the block. He wondered if their leaving this way had planted the same ideas in all minds present as Cruz and Lampley's departure had.

When they got to the car, he looked over at her, "You sober?"

She nodded, "Danced it off."

They both got in...

He's received some pretty strange looks, even in the hospital, as he made his way through. The blood-covered white shirt, he imagined. He looked over and saw the gift shop then...

They'd ridden in silence to his apartment then and he moved to open the door as she idled the engine.

"Merry Christmas, Bobby," she said softly.

He glanced over at her and blinked at the sort of glow about her, at her stillness, at what she surely must quietly know.

"Good night, Eames. Merry Christmas."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

**T**he waiting room is full of the Eames family. All the males, even Noah. And their matriarch, Constance. In the back of his mind it registers that Paula must be home with the baby.

Johnny Eames rose when he entered, and came forward to greet him in that hale and hearty man's man way of an old school cop.

"How're you doing there, Bobby? They got you patched up?" he inquired as they shook hands.

He nodded. "What's her status?"

"We don't know yet. She's been in there two hours now. It looks like the rib punctured her lung but we don't know anymore yet."

He sighed and walked over to her mother.

"Anything I can do for you, Connie?" he asked gently.

She looked up at him with the same dark burning eyes he'd looked into every day for four years, the only tell of her stroke two years ago, a slight drooping of the left lid.

"Unless you've obtained an Ivy League degree in thoracic surgery since last we met, Bobby, then no."

He nodded and took her voice and words with him to a chair in the corner. They being exactly what Alex would have said in the same situation.

They sat and shifted uncomfortably for another hour. Deakins showed up in the interim, followed by Sylvia, bearing sandwiches and cups of coffee from the cafeteria.

"Johnny," the Captain greeted her father, "It's been a helluva twenty-four hours, but she's the strongest woman I know. A damn fine detective too. The very best. Sharpest mind on the force."

Goren watched as Johnny Eames took that proudly to heart, then flicked his eyes over to Connie just in time to catch her eye roll of irritation.

He knew that Alex being in the force had always been a tough thing for her. And these past few weeks could not have improved that outlook.

An intern poked her head in then, "Eames family?" she asked.

The room turned deadly quiet.

"That's us," said Johnny.

"I've come to give you a status report," she said nervously. They all held their breath.

"Well, spit it out!" barked Connie.

"Detective Eames has had a second incident. The first being in the ambulance on the way here."

"Define _incident_," gritted Goren through his teeth.

"Cardiac arrest. We have restarted her heart but she remains critical. We've managed to clear her lungs, but feel there may still be bone fragments from the rib that we haven't found yet. The head surgeon has determined to keep her on the table until her heart stabilizes before proceeding to search for the fragments. We're hoping that this will happen within the next hour."

Goren turned to see Charlie stand then. _He's the firefighter? Married to the nurse? Or is that Henry? No, Henry's the oldest..._

"...You're just going to leave her open on the table like that?" he heard him demand.

"It's the best thing we can do for now. I'll come back as soon as we have more information."

They all settled again into grim silence.

"She'll be fine," Johnny finally broke through, his optimism almost convincing.

"She always was hard-headed," observed Henry then.

"Hey, remember when she took that sailboat around The Sound by herself that summer?"

"She was only twelve..."

"Mom like to've killed her."

"As soon as she's well, she should take a vacation," said Charlie then.

"Someplace warm, she likes that," offered Gareth.

"By the ocean," said Henry, "so she can sail."

"Alex is too cheap to take herself on a vacation," grinned Charlie.

"That's true," smiled Henry.

"Maybe she'd pop for a Holiday Inn by the Jersey Shore for a weekend," contributed Gareth, "If she's got a coupon, that is..."

"Maybe she could write it off as some sort of work expense. A budgeting protocol workshop..."

"She could _teach _that and charge for it..."

"All right, that's it! You lot, _out!_" barked Connie, on her feet now.

"Con, _honey_, the boys are just lightening the mood, it's the Irish way," Johnny tried to mollify.

She focused her fury then, her eyes ablaze, "I don't care whose way it is! I will not listen to this! You will not joke about her that way. Not now. Not ever! You dandy lads would do well to save your money as she has. You never know when...when your circumstances might change," she looked meaningfully at her husband then. "You all sit here joking about her being selfish after what she did for her sister? Something she'll never get a chance to do for herself, that's what Alex did. You think that's funny, do you? Think that's what will _lighten the mood_? Get the hell out of my sight, all of you! Go smoke, or drink coffee, or crawl into caves to scratch and grunt, I don't care— _Just leave!_"

The subdued men along with the Deakinses all filed out silently.

Constance Eames remained in the middle of the room, breathing heavily. As she slowly composed herself, she pushed her hair off her forehead and lifted her eyes to him.

"You still here?"

"I'm foolhardy," said Goren.

She nodded and returned to her chair.

Bobby mulled for a moment, then turned toward her.

"Alex has..." he began softly, "Alex has... been helping you out... financially, since your husband's... incident...?"

She looked up at him through narrowed eyes but did not answer.

"I'm guessing Johnny doesn't know... It's just an arrangement between you and her..."

Constance sighed, "I'm too worried to be dazzled by you right now, Bobby. Paula and Carl needed help with all the fertility treatments at first. They are outrageously expensive. Five procedures she had, and none of them took. Five thousand dollars for each attempt. That pretty much wiped us out..."

"Alex helped with that too?"

"With the baby. With our mortgage. Johnny thinks that I just run a magically tight little ship on his pension. He has no idea. I'm telling you, Bobby, that baby should be made of solid gold, for all he's cost. And that's just in financial terms."

He nodded.

"I'm sorry you had to hear all that," she said after a moment. "But that's the way family is, and you're part of that, part of us, being her partner and all. Even more so since your mother's passing. We expect you on holidays now, I hope you know."

Bobby knew that implicit in this invitation was that Alex would still be around for him to partner.

"I wouldn't miss it."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

**J**ust before dawn, he stood at the foot of her bed in the ICU, the rest of the family dozing in the waiting room. One guest at a time, it was now his turn.

He opened the paper bag he'd been gripping since he'd left Emergency hours before, and turned to the nurse as he made notations in the chart.

"Could I...?" he asked, showing what he wanted to do, "Just for her feet. She gets cold..."

The nurse nodded and smiled.

He walked to the tap and turned it to hot, allowing a few moments for the temperature to rise, then slid the hot water bottle under and filled it.

When it was capped, dry, and wrapped in a towel, he crossed back to the foot of her bed and, taking one last look at her doll-like face, the tubes snaking from her mouth and nose, lifted the blanket.

There were the scarlet-painted toes.

He gently slid the comfort object under them.

To keep her warm.


	17. Seventeen

There is a place of existence, when your blood pressure is especially low, right on the very edge.

_In between _possibly.

Many people briefly experience it as they awaken each day, but to remain persistently there for hours at a time, to be able to shift one's eyes to the right and see the fantastic, the dreamlike, and even memory in the darkened corner of your half-closed eyelids, and then shift them to the left to see what is real... and to be able to make the choice to do so does not happen to many.

For days Alex lingered there.

Sometimes truly unconscious, at others in this edge-place.

She could not speak for the tube down her throat.

Not that she had anything to say as she eyed the shadowy images in her periphery. She merely floated. It was not at all unpleasant except when her throat and lips were especially dry.

Often enough someone would swab them with something cool and moist.

She could hear them all around her, both the real and the shadowy, but couldn't ever remember what they said.

Bobby was there reading aloud sometimes, she thought. And her mother chatting about God knows what as she moved restlessly about the room. Her father, going on about police work maybe. Or perhaps that was just what she expected of them.

Once, over in one of the shadowy corners, she saw Chris, that guy she'd dated two years ago. He'd been attentive and sweet, loved the theater and going out to dinner—had green eyes. But his job had moved him to Germany, right? So why was he there?

And then there'd been Meg Goren standing at the foot of her bed too. Alex wrinkled her brow and moved her eyes to Bobby reading the paper in the chair near her. She tried to tell him, 'Look, there's your mother', but he wasn't listening.

She looked back at Meg then and wanted to ask her how it was that she was there being dead and all but then fell asleep before she could form the words.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Here's how it played out: Marjorie Shendrick had faxed a letter of confession to One Police Plaza just before Bobby and Alex had arrived at her office. She told of her suspicions, of her own research into Zel Larkins' writing, and finally of her ill-fated trip to Christine's apartment early that morning.

In a hastily handwritten codicil to her will, she directed nearly half of her large fortune to The Met's building program, and most of the other to The Mitzvah Society, as well as a large additional sum for the families of the lost FBI agents.

She hoped, she wrote, that this might in some way atone for her hubris.

That closed the Larkins murder. No direct arrest, but a solve nevertheless.

Arano was turned over to the FBI with no further complaint.

Of the ten agents in the opera house that night, only two were found alive. One still in critical condition. Two of the bombers were also believed caught in the blast, leaving two remaining at large despite the best efforts of thousands.

Bobby gleaned most of this from the newspaper, as well as from covert discussions with Lampley and Valdez.

From them he learned that the ATM security tape across the road from the Larkins apartment had shown Christine coming down to the lobby moments after Arano left with the red mailing tube. She'd made a phone call at the desk while there, then went back upstairs.

The front desk phone records had not been checked at the time. Sloppy, he sighed.

Her call had been to Dr. Shendrick who, accordingly, the tape revealed, showed up shortly thereafter to confront her patient. The detectives believed she had taken Christine's body out through the parking garage and into an alley then.

The doorman who was supposed to have been on duty that night had been asleep in the office, he'd later admitted.

Goren re-folded the newspaper then and looked over at Eames. Asleep now. There had been brief periods of semi-consciousness in the week since the surgery, but how aware she'd been was anyone's guess. The meds in her system were pretty strong.

They'd all visited and talked and read to her. Played her some music. Her room became a veritable bower, her name and details of their story having been in the paper. There were bright pink tulips from Lewis, tall gracefully arching orchids with sprouted willow from David Drew... roses from the Carvers, the Deakinses, the squad... and so on...

He'd fallen into something of a routine during the week.

He found that if he rose at the same hour each morning, whatever sleep he'd had the night before, and ate a simple breakfast before going out, it helped occupy his mind.

He'd take the newspaper with him, and one of his medical books usually, and walk to one of the many museums or galleries in town to kill the few hours until they'd allow him in to visit. There were many he'd been planning to visit over the years but hadn't had the time to get to.

One foot in front of the next he would walk before painting after painting, photograph after photograph, sculpture after sculpture. But when he'd stop before, say, a bleak Mondrian and try to consider its negative space, he only saw the twisted pathways of neurons and the mis-firing of synapses float before him.

He couldn't get an accurate estimate from anyone on how long her heart was actually still, on either occasion. And could only ask when her family wasn't nearby.

And so he wondered who she will be if she comes back at all.

After the art, it's time for the hospital, and so, a step at a time, he made his way there.

He's already decided that he will ask for a leave of absence.

Perhaps for a month, maybe two. After his mother, after Alex, he feels his grip is not what it should be. And the old fears are surfacing. Perhaps he'll take a trip. Perhaps try therapy again, though it's so damn hard to find a therapist who knows more than he.

This is all contingent on what he must believe—that she will come back and, after suitable convalescence, be well enough to work again.

He's not going to go through a temporary partner again.

And as he sits daily in her room, his shoulder aching, he feels that something is coming.

Something just out of sight. He doesn't know what and doesn't much like the feeling of his keen instincts turning within.

But something's ahead. Something he's pretty sure he doesn't want to face.

Even when she wakes up.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Midway into the second week, the doctors felt Eames alert enough to remove the breathing tube.

Her mother held her hand as it was painfully extracted.

"Bear down, try to cough as I pull, Alex. That's a girl," Bobby heard the nurse speak in a slightly patronizing tone.

From his position outside her door he waited and felt he could pretty well imagine the expression in her eyes right now.

"Now I know you want a drink, but we need to be sure that you can swallow, and breathe on your own. So I'm just going to swab your mouth. Sorry, honey."

He listened to her cough as she was checked over.

And finally, "What... are all these flowers for... somebody die?" she rasped softly.

And a sort of relief flooded over him.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

A new routine began.

He still came every day. He updated her on the case and the progress that was being made on locating the bombers and sometimes read the newspaper to her.

Occasionally he'd look over as he was speaking to see her brow furrowed. He knew then that she was having trouble remembering. Her throat still quite raw, she spoke little, but he finally gleaned that she really only had spotty memories of everything that happened at the opera house after she arrived that evening.

"We were handcuffed to a pipe," he'd gently reminded her and showed her the bruises and rubbed places on their wrists. But she didn't remember that.

It was not unexpected that the memories closest to the time of her injury and subsequent surgery should be foggy. This was common enough. He was more interested in the rest of her mind. _Where _it was, what it remembered.

One afternoon, he walked in to find her sitting up trying food.

"Any good?" he grinned.

She only grimaced and pushed the tray away. She studied him for a moment.

"They told me you were shot," she whispered, still hoarse.

He looked up at her and saw, for the first time, the deep penetration in her eyes he remembered from before.

He nodded.

"Are you all right?" she checked and he could see sincere concern there too.

"I'm fine," he smiled.

She nodded, willing to let him brush it off for now.

"Bobby, while I was dopey... This is crazy... but I thought I saw your mother in the room."

He was surprised by this, "Really?"

She nodded.

"Did she say anything?"

She shook her head at that and looked at him again, "How are you doing, Bobby... I mean, really?"

He looked down at the newspaper in his hand and knew that he must answer her in an authentic way and not in the small-talk sort of way he'd prefer right now.

"I... I called my brother the other night," he admitted, and looked over at her.

She lifted her brows, "How'd that go?"

"Terrible," he smiled. "But I'm going to call him again."

She smiled back, "Brothers can be real pains in the ass.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

She called him late one night after visiting hours.

"Did I wake you?" she asked.

"No, just watching Jon Stewart. Everything okay?" he asked as he switched off the remote.

She was silent a moment.

"Eames?"

"I remembered something..."

He waited.

"After she hit me and ran to the door... she came back and pointed the gun at us... I heard the shot."

"I thought you were unconscious then."

"I guess not. Unless... I've imagined it after you told me about it..."

"That's possible," he allowed, "the brain's tricky."

"I know."

They let that stretch between them for a moment.

"Bobby?"

"Yeah?"

"You're sure you're all right?"

"Absolutely."

He listened then as she turned restlessly in her hospital bed.

"It never gets completely dark here, even at two in the morning there are still lights..."

"Makes sleeping difficult."

"How've you been doing in that department?"

"I've had easier times," he admitted. "But you get to go home tomorrow."

"To the ministrations of dear old mom."

"It won't be for long."

"I know. I shouldn't complain. Everyone's been wonderful. I just want... life back."

"Yeah. I know."

And he rolled over onto his side in his own bed.

"Listen, Eames. Since you're going home and all..."

"Yes?"

"I've been thinking..."

She waited.

"I've been talking to my brother again..."

"That's good."

"I think I'm going to go out and see him for awhile."

He held his breath while she processed.

"Seattle?" she checked.

"Yeah."

"Well, I think that's a great idea, Bobby."

_Had her voice been too bright?_

"Yeah, I think so too."

"Would your Mom have liked that?"

"It would have depended on the day you asked her."

"Right."

"Well, I should let you sleep..."

"You too."

"'Night, Eames."

"'Night, Goren."

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There comes a time during recovery when the anger really sets in.

And in that most Kubler-Ross of ways it cycles in and out through daily living.

So long days of bad daytime television, scheduled visits from mom (mealtimes, doctor follow-ups, etc), the cards and flowers and visitors now faded with the immediate danger... all pile up on one another.

And cascade right over.

Until the simple frustration of trying to open a can of tuna with an opener that may once have crossed the Alps with Hannibal, boils up into complete and utter fury...

And then, to your surprise, you find you're standing in your own kitchen with broken glass scattered about your feet.

She's well enough to be pissed.

Well enough that her incision is driving her crazy.

Well enough to try to do stuff she shouldn't.

But then going downstairs to get the mail feels like a ten mile hike...

And she's snapped and apologized to her mother and then cried in the bathtub alone at night.

She's also tried to read.

And to write in that covert way she has because, secretly, sometimes she's ten years old and knows if her brothers catch her doing something so sissy, she'll never hear the end of it.

She really wants to go back to work.

And Bobby's been gone for two weeks.

Her only evidence of his existence the odd perfunctory email.

Hell, she snorts to herself, they might not even be from him. She can think of three cases at least right off the top of her head in which perps sent emails in another's name.

Ah, screw it.

She picked up the phone and called Lewis.


	18. Eighteen

_**For your willing suspension of disbelief and forgiveness for any perceived gross butchery, I am most grateful. It's been fun.**_

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What had only been a once or twice a week thing during the first fortnight of Bobby's trip, escalated to once or twice a day by the beginning of the third week.

Alex didn't really want to take time to analyze the motivations that might be behind this increase in his emails, she was too busy seizing her recovery by the ping pongs and wrestling the bastard down.

It was nice to hear from him though. So she parked Bobby and his incumbent issues in a cozy back brain place, and set about getting herself well.

The SUV still undergoing repairs, which could well render it a classic by the time the city bureaucracy had paper-worked each nut and bolt, she had been left without a ride. So she arranged to rent something just a little wicked from Lewis.

"I'll just lend it to you," he offered.

"No, I'll rent it," she insisted, "but I'll let you give me a deal."

"Fine. But no hotdogging, Detective."

"Then how will I get the cute guys to look at me?" she smirked.

"Somehow, in those jeans, I don't think that'll be a problem."

"You putting a custom Holly in that '69 over there?" she checked.

"Naturally. Rebuilt it myself."

"Very sexy, Lewis. You are a class act."

"Are you sure you won't marry me?"

"Nope, I like it better up here on my pedestal. Makes me feel tall."

"You're killing me, Alex, you know that."

"I think you'll survive," she told him knowingly. "Now where's the keys?"

He extended them out to her, then pulled them back just before she could grab them.

"You sure you're up to driving?"

"Yes. Not a manual perhaps, though I _was_ eyeing that TR6 over there. I didn't know you let imports in here, Lewis."

"Don't tell Bobby."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

The weather forecast was pretty good for the week. Gloomy and cold, sure, but no new snow on the horizon and the roads were in good shape.

Each morning she'd bundle up and fill a travel mug to brimming with hot coffee and hit the road. It was liberating to get out of the city. She felt lighter with each mile she put between the apple green Mustang and The Big Apple that was Manhattan.

Driving felt good. Listening to the radio felt good. As did drinking coffee.

She wandered up the coast. Or sometimes out into the country someplace. To small towns she'd never been before. She'd find a park or a beach and walk in the brisk air, taking it into her lungs painfully. Stretching them as far as she could. Trying to improve her wind and regain her strength.

She'd get a little lunch somewhere then, a sandwich in the car or a hamburger, then turn and head back to the city.

At night she'd conk out as soon as her head hit the pillow. Sometimes she'd wake with pain from the surgery, but more often than not, slept through.

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TO: Eames

FROM: Goren

Yes, it's still raining. Drove up north to a Native American museum this morning. Some extraordinary pieces there. The carving work alone worth the trip. Rick is what he always was, though perhaps now a little less so. Saw some migrating whales off the coast yesterday. How are you feeling?

TO: Goren

FROM: Eames

Glad your trip is going well. Saw Lewis earlier in the week. Had lunch with Sylvia Deakins yesterday—they're going to be grandparents. I'm getting stronger by the day. How's the shoulder?

TO: Eames

FROM: Goren

The shoulder doesn't like the rain. Why did you see Lewis?

TO: Goren

FROM: Eames

You should try a hot water bottle for that. He was helping me up my hotness factor. Not getting any younger over here. Just ask Connie and Johnny. There's been a string of murders downtown. Homeless kids. Has it hit the news there?

TO: Eames

FROM: Goren

No. I'll look into it online. Lewis in the same sentence as 'hotness' puzzles me. Going to dinner with Rick and his wife now.

TO: Goren

FROM: Eames

And they call you a brilliant detective.

TO: Eames

FROM: Goren

Rick and Stacy are going to adopt two little girls, sisters, from China. It's late in life for them—they'd decided to avoid natural conception because of obvious hereditary issues long ago, but have changed their minds about being parents. Odd how I will be distantly attached to a nuclear family now.

TO: Goren

FROM: Eames

Congratulations, Uncle Brilliant Detective.

TO: Eames

FROM: Goren

I was wondering if they'd rechecked for anemia again? I hope you haven't let that slip. It's strange not to be thinking about Mom's meds, reading up on the new protocols, etc. Perhaps I should learn Mandarin. Not sure what they will speak though yet.

TO: Eames

FROM: Goren

You must still be out someplace. Going to an international bookstore Rick knows.

TO: Eames

FROM: Goren

Just thinking about you. Had an interesting Korean beer this evening. Nice place.

TO: Eames

FROM: Goren

Read up on that downtown case. You know anything from the inside? Are you sleeping better? Maybe you should think about acupuncture. I've been reading about it. There is some interesting science behind it and many swear by it. I'll look into it further for you.

TO: Goren

FROM: Eames

I miss you too, Bobby.

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The firing range had seemed a good idea after her drive, but she heartily regretted it now. The bag of Chinese take-away was almost too heavy for her.

No stairs today, she decided, as she walked into the elevator and slumped against the back wall. She was going to feel this even more tomorrow.

Hot water bottle time.

I am getting old, she thought.

She'd just stepped out onto her floor when her cell rang.

"Eames."

"Hey."

"_Bobby_?"

"Yeah. Did I catch you at a bad time?"

"No. Just bringing home some egg rolls."

"Sounds good. From that place around the corner?"

"Yeah."

"Did you get any extra?"

"_Where are you?_"

"Here."

She looked up to see him leaning against her front door, the familiar leather portfolio in hand.

"I can't believe Lewis let you drive that Mustang. He won't let me near it."

"No one in their right mind let's you drive. You stalking me, Goren?"

He grinned.

She thrust her bag of food into his arms and dug for her keys.

"By the way, you were right," he told her.

"Right about what?"

He leaned in and whispered softly as she turned the lock, "I missed you."

She flicked her eyes up to him, "Hmmm..."

He laughed. "That's all you've got? _Hmmm? _Not glad to see me?" he followed her in. "I'm glad to _see you_, Eames. You look a lot better."

She slipped out of her coat. "I am. You look better too."

"The trip was good for me."

"I'm glad."

He hung up his coat next to hers and followed her into the kitchen.

"Grab us a couple of beers," she instructed, as she took out plates and utensils.

"Sure I'm not putting you out?" he smiled.

"I'm sure."

They sat across from one another at her small table.

She studied him as she served the food out onto the plates. He really did look good. And being in his presence again, smelling him, watching his eyes dart about... satisfied her.

"I didn't get any cashew chicken..."she apologized, as she handed his plate over.

"You didn't know I'd be here. This is great. Thanks."

"What time did you get in?" she asked, as he opened their beers and they began eating.

"A few hours ago."

She nodded and licked a bit of sauce off her thumb.

"You really look rested, Bobby. That's nice to see."

He nodded and they ate on.

"When will they get to go to China?"

"Not until October."

"That's exciting."

"They seem pretty thrilled."

They lapsed into silence, glad for each other's company then.

"It'll be good to get back to work," he finally began.

She looked up and listened thoughtfully as he went.

"Nice to get back to... you know, _normal._" He lifted a napkin to press against his lips.

"You think we can?" she asked after a moment.

He blinked, "Get back to normal? Sure... why not?"

She sighed.

"I think we should try," he told her meaningfully.

She put down her fork and picked up her own napkin.

"So that's your decision then?" she asked mildly. "All that angst, and _that's_ what you've landed on?"

He swallowed and looked at her sharply.

"What do you mean?" he asked warily.

"You know, Bobby, you're not usually the one to underestimate me."

She waited a moment then, watching the machinations of his mind behind his eyes.

"Fine," she said, and stood to clear the food boxes. "Normal it is then. I can do normal. I am the model of professional normal, after all."

She set the boxes next to the sink and turned to fill the coffee maker.

She could feel the gravity of his silence as it pressed in upon her.

"Eames," he said softly then, "Come back and sit down..."

She kept her eyes on the machine before her, "Goren, I'm tired. Let's just call it a night."

He took in the tightness in her shoulders.

"Alex... _please_."

She turned back to him and considered him over crossed arms, then walked back and sat back down.

He rubbed his forehead thoughtfully, then pressed his fist into his lips.

She waited, watching his eyes. She knew he was processing. Working out approaches. Considering motivations. Outcomes.

He knew her, she decided. Probably better than she'd like to think. He'll be direct, she thought. Then lay out his observations, his thinking...

Finally his eyes landed on her. His hands folded just under his chin.

"You've known." he said.

She knew this to be a statement rather than a question.

She nodded slightly and lifted her brows. "Of course I have, Bobby."

He took in an audible breath and nodded himself.

She watched him regroup.

He leaned back and pulled his leather portfolio before him from where it sat on the end of the table.

She half expected him to open it up and confront her with evidence. Photos. Documents. Phone logs...

He looked at her again.

"How long?" he asked.

"How long have I known?" she checked.

"Yes."

She cocked her head thoughtfully. "Longer than you," she decided.

He nodded.

"I don't underestimate you, Eames," he began, leaning in again. "It's just... I was so barely aware myself."

She nodded her understanding of that. Made perfect sense.

"After the baby was born..." he began, looking away for a moment, as she waited for him to lay it all out, "You began... well, to consider your life more..." He looked up at her and saw agreement in her eyes. "You wanted more... intimacy in your life... with me..."

She waited patiently, her expression now veiled.

"And that seemed fine. Great even," he scrubbed his hand over his face. "I was happy for that. I was..."

"...But then things began to change?" she prompted quietly.

He eyed her and nodded. "Quite a bit came up within me that I hadn't been... fully conscious of before."

"That must have been especially hard for you."

"The accident. My mother. Your being so hurt... Seeing my brother..."

"It was a lot," she comforted.

He looked into her eyes a then, she saw a slight desperation there.

"Alex, it must have just been... coming along all this time...just quietly coming along..."

"It has."

He leaned in further and she could feel distress coming wave-like from his large focused body.

"I didn't know... what you felt... And then... And then it seemed that it might not matter."

"Because of the work?"

"Because of the work," he nodded. "I know what it means to you. I know you understand what it means to me. We've always been in perfect accordance on that. I just... didn't see a way."

She nodded at the truth in that.

"And though the feeling is still there," he went on, focusing on his hands with resolve, "I can choose not to act on it. It may perhaps even deepen our work..."

"Bobby, what did you think I wanted?" she asked abruptly.

He looked up in surprise, "Well, I..."

"Oh, Bobby, _Bobby_," she sighed and shook her head. It was almost cute in its absurdity. "Did you really think I _wanted._..? You did, didn't you? And, don't answer that, it was rhetorical."

She stood up, unable to be still for another moment, paced to the door and came back to lean back on the counter before him.

She looked down into his anxious, waiting face.

"Bobby, listen to me: I am nearly forty years old. I am not looking for 'white lace and promises', do you understand?"

He continued to stare at her.

"I _have had _that, Bobby. And it was wonderful. But it's not who I am anymore. Bullets and solving cases and giving away a baby changed all those things. I am not dreaming of diapers and picket fences.

I am only now... _I am only now _coming into my full power. I don't know how else to explain it. But I am now able to coalesce all my experience and focus it into a _solve_.

And I have learned a lot from you along the way. But my work is vital, Bobby._ Vital_. I can't wait to be strong enough to get back to it."

He swallowed and nodded. This he perfectly understood.

"Now, I know you have some sort of theory in your head about _my honor _or something. Some sort of Oedipal recipe of motivations. I must stay true-blue because my father didn't. I must carry on the work that killed my husband... And, I suppose that is within me. But, I am a human woman too. And want connection... and, yes, _love_, too..."

He reached a hand out to her silently. She took it in her own.

"So, in light of this, the question of _what you really want _remains," she went on. "If 'back to normal' is your answer, then fine. You and I both know that this 'marriage' we already have is far too valuable to lose. If you still want to search bars until you find your own version of 'white lace and promises', then fine to that too... Just so you understand that I'm not going anywhere, either way..."

He stood up and moved before her, looking down into her face.

And gently laid his finger along her jaw.

"What if... all I want... more than anything... is greater... _depth_ with what I already have?" he asked.

She took a breath.

"Then I'd have to say, 'Be sure, Bobby. Be very sure.' Many have failed trying and have suffered in their work _and_ their hearts."

He smiled softly.

"I never wanted picket fences and diapers, either... but I do want _you._.." he told her.

She caught her breath at the intensity in his voice.

"Well, then... the feeling's mutual," she responded, her chin uplifted.

He deliberately moved his free hand to her injured side, watching his fingers splay gently across her ribs to hold on.

She tilted her head back, closed her eyes, and sighed.

"Your hand is warm," she breathed.

And he palmed her face.

She felt then his body move closer, his head bending down to whisper in her ear, his breath tickling...

"I didn't think... or hope even...Do you really think we'll be lucky enough to have both?"

She shivered.

Her eyes still closed, she lifted her lips and turned them to his ear, "I don't believe in luck," she whispered back, "I believe in what we have been and could be to each other."

"And the work?" he whispered back.

"And the work."

"So... we quietly..."

"...don't ask or tell..." she finished for him, with a slight shrug.

"Hmmm... I may like this...previously unseen... slightly _naughty_ side of you, Eames," he growled a bit then.

"Oh honey, this is only the tip of the iceberg..."

She felt the intoxication of him flood her then and breathed in as his body began pressing into her's, his hands grasping more tightly, his thumb circling on bare skin...

She placed her hands on his beating heart then, feeling the hardness of his chest beneath...

"_What if we get... caught?_" he asked, and nipped at her ear.

She moaned, "We'll cross that bridge when..."

But her words were silenced as his mouth caught hers.

She lifted up on her toes, not feeling the stretch of her ribs, and gave back, the relief of it rushing through her, her breasts pressed hard against him, his hips into hers...

He trailed moistly her neck moments later, and she listened as he ground out words of disbelief, of wonder, and the hunger he had for her...

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It was that darkest, coldest part of the morning.

But she was warm and breathing in satisfaction...

When her phone rang.

She made an awkward grab for it.

"Eames?" she croaked.

Bobby moved next to her, trying to wrap his arms around her middle. She poked him in the ribs to stem the snoring, then wriggled free as she responded to the caller.

"Bobby, wake up," she told him after hanging up.

Then reached over to switch on the beside lamp.

"_What?_" he moaned, and, "_too bright_," before rolling away.

But she was out of bed, wrapping herself in a robe.

"They've found another one of those kids downtown. They want us."

He opened his eyes and slowly sat up.

"You aren't supposed to go back until tomorrow."

She shrugged and threw his t-shirt at him just as his cell next to the bed began ringing.

He reached for it as she slipped from the room.

"Goren..."

He found her in the kitchen moments later making coffee.

"We'll have to get a cab," she told him. "I won't get the SUV until Monday."

He nodded and scrubbed his hands over his face, "This is the eighth girl, Eames."

She nodded grimly, "I know. Go hop in the shower. I'll bring the coffee when it's ready. You have clothes you can wear?"

He nodded and moved toward the bathroom, "I should bring more over, though."

"Leave me some hot water!" she called as the coffee began to perk.

"I'm not shaving!" he called back.

"Color me surprised," she murmured quietly.


End file.
